


Let's Try That Again, Shall We?

by Circaea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, F/F, F/M, Humor, M/M, Original Character(s), Other, Time Travel, Wordcount: Over 150.000, Wordcount: Over 200.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 59
Words: 232,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Circaea/pseuds/Circaea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sybill Trelawney's prophetic nightmares motivate her friend to try to stop them.  Starts in 1989.  A complicated, redo-style time-travel story with a lousy summary. Not Harry-centric; often focuses on original and peripheral canon characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there. A couple notes before the story begins. **You can safely skip to the story without missing anything!**
> 
>  
> 
> Brief summary: This is a complicated, re-do-style time-travel story with a lousy summary. It aspires to poke at the interesting edges of the Harry Potter universe while still remaining fanfiction. No major gimmicks, no specific pairings yet, not paced anything like a novel. Not Harry-centric. A quarter of the 80-odd characters used so far are original, and a lot of peripheral canon characters get face-time. You will often forget that time-travel is involved at all. This is an unusual story. Give it a chance.
> 
>  
> 
> I can see via site-provided statistics (on other sites) that a lot of people drop out of this story in the middle of the introduction (like, after the first chapter). Since when I re-read that section, it's still exactly how I want it, I'm pretty okay with scaring off readers. However, for what it's worth:
> 
> To skip the prologue, which is deliberately different in feel from the rest of the story (come on, it's a prologue), go to chapter 4. According to site statistics, if you read through chapter 4, you are 80% likely to read the entire rest of the story.
> 
> To skip past pure set-up, go to chapter 12. Chapters 12-17 are representative of most of the rest of the story.
> 
> To skip ahead to the first explicit material, go to chapter 42. I'll warn you, it's pretty weird in places.
> 
> If you do any of that, of course, I'd like it if you went back and read from the beginning. :P
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: I'll try to give these chapter-by-chapter. The story's long enough that there should be something to bother everybody in there somewhere. I think the only overall warning I could give is that there's a lot of dubious consent; the average fanfiction reader will barely notice most instances of it, but there's a lot of it collectively.
> 
> If you are considering including this in a list of works somewhere, please actually read the whole thing, because it probably won't contain what you think it will based on the first chapters.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 1: Introduction

 

Saturday, August 26, 1989.

Sybill Trelawney woke up drenched in sweat, heart racing, with her fingers clutching the sheets. Vivid nightmares had plagued her for three nights running, and she was certain they were prophetic.

She wasn't ready to talk to Dumbledore about this. In fact, she wasn't sure if she should talk to him at all, since the last time he heard a prophecy of hers, it got leaked to the Death Eaters and an innocent little boy lost his parents. Ugh. She shuddered, finally connecting a boy from the nightmares with Harry. No, best not to tell Dumbledore.

The nightmares, though, were very bad. She had seen dozens of senseless murders at the hands of Death Eaters, watched them gain control of the ministry and of Hogwarts, saw Snape fire a killing curse at a weakened Dumbledore, and most vividly, the Great Hall lined with bodies. The dream had not spared her from seeing the faces of the dead or the tears of the survivors. Throughout it all were poor Harry, seemingly present in nearly everything that went wrong, and the pale, inhuman face of You-Know-Who, gloating.

She dressed and headed out of the castle to Hogsmeade, intending to visit an old family friend. Her mind churned: She knew the future wasn't set in place. But it was awfully hard to change, though—if it were, people would put a lot less stock in prophecies. The dreams hadn't shown her any critical moments—any hooks that anyone could use to try to pull things off course. Even if she did go to Dumbledore, what would she say? "Prepare for war." After eight years of peace, no one would be keen to listen to Sybill Trelawney.

That was the problem, she thought, as she walked into the Hog's Head and waved to Aberforth, with her chosen persona. Stepping up to the fireplace, she tossed in some floo powder and called out "The Leaky Cauldron". After stumbling out the other side, she quickly headed for the door, pocketing her oversized glasses and transfiguring her clothes before anyone could recognize her. It was perfectly normal for someone to rapidly change their appearance on their way out to the muggle world, so no one even looked up as she disillusioned her jewelry, stuffed her headband into her brightly-colored bag, and then cast a glamour over the bag for good measure. A flick of her wand on the way out the door de-frizzed her hair, and she stepped out into the sunlight on Charing Cross Road.

She had never learned to apparate—too dangerous, and it required a precision she was genuinely not very good at. She had compensated by learning to switch in and out of her persona when traveling in the muggle world; appearances _were_ something she was very good at.

Her meticulously-crafted look and personality in the wizarding world let her avoid the attention and danger that usually came with being a true seeress. Oh, how she had secretly cursed Snape (with foul language, not magic) for leaking to Voldemort her prophecy about Harry. She had worked anxiously since then to appear yet more wifty and fraudulent, hoping everyone would consider her "one true prophecy" a fluke. At least the anxiety was in character.

As it turned out, students and parents had come to expect Hogwarts to have a wifty-looking Divination professor. All the gauze, sequins, and incense satisfied muggleborns' image of a seeress. Purebloods knew how much of the subject required rare natural gifts, of course, but they had their children study it anyway because it perpetuated wizarding culture.

Maybe a few professors saw through her act, but at least a few didn't, and those seemed to find her genuinely irritating. This saddened her, but was better than being a target for Death Eaters. As to Dumbledore himself, she suspected he wouldn't have kept her around out of pity if he thought she were a _complete_ fraud, but then he was so story-driven that he probably would have ordered Snape to grease his hair if the potions professor hadn't done it on his own. Maybe Dumbledore just thought she was doing a nice, workmanlike job of playing her part in his vision of Hogwarts? She wasn't going to ask.

After a few minutes in the muggle world, she felt as if a weight was lifting off of her. Her nightmares still haunted her, but the wizarding world could be set aside for a little while. She started imagining herself as the muggles must see her—a pretty young woman in her twenties, who didn't look out of place among the tourists and shoppers here along Shaftesbury. It was all too soon that she was standing outside the "hotel" entrance on Bloomsbury Street that served as the entrance to the wizarding section of the British Library. Talking to her friend always made her feel better when she had nightmares, but there was still something to be said for simply running away from your problems. She sighed and went in.

The charms on the door ensured no muggles would notice her entering, but she was more concerned about wizards seeing her. Did she really need to wear those glasses here? What were the chances of someone recognizing her? One of the elevators in the hotel lobby dinged, and opened up to let out a woman and her small daughter.

"CAN I TALK LOUD AGAIN MOMMY?"

With a beleaguered look, the woman replied "yes, I suppose you were really good today."

As the doors closed, Sybill heard "CAN WE GO GET ICE CREAM NOW?" followed by a "pop!" from the apparation point in the corner. She had about a minute to change her appearance back, if she were going to do it at all. It wasn't much of a decision—she lacked the nerve to change the way she looked in wizarding society. Even without the threat of Death Eaters, it would just be too much work to be anyone other than the Sybill Trelawney everyone was used to.

So it was the familiar, frizzy-haired and anxious Sybill who stepped into the main atrium a minute later. The architecture was lavish—three stories of white marble, ringed with balconies and halls leading off in every direction. Artificial sunlight streamed down from the dome, feeding huge potted tree ferns and the creeping fig that covered each of the pillars up to the ceiling. In the center was a huge animated statue, "Knowledge", which periodically poured buckets of water into the pool below. Today the pool had a mallard duck swimming in it, which looked at her hopefully, opening and closing its beak; apparently whoever thought it was a good idea to decorate with live animals had used a silencing spell to deal with its incessant quacking. Sybill had nothing to give it, and headed down the corridor to the North Wing.

She was hoping her friend Acamar still worked on Saturdays, only now wondering if she should have owled ahead, and whether an owl would even have gotten here before she could. After going down two flights of stairs, she went around the side of the stacks to a row of office doors, and knocked tentatively on the one labeled "Acamar G. Dunlin, Reference Librarian".

"Come in!"

Relieved, she opened the door and peered around it. Acamar was a portly, cheerful, grey-haired man who might have been in his sixties. He had gone to Hogwarts with her mother, and had been "Uncle Acamar" to her when she was little. His walls and desk were covered with rows and stacks of books, interspersed with loose bits of parchment, giving the appearance of one engaged in Serious Research.

"Sybill! Oh, just come in already."

"You're not busy?"

"Well, that depends on what you think I ought to be doing, I suppose. I think a patron actually asked me a question last Wednesday—no, Tuesday—wait, was it this week? I spent a whole ninety seconds answering it, and I can only assume that was adequate because I never saw the man again. Hm." He gave the appearance of being deep in thought, and then brightened, smiling. "Yes, I think I can safely assert that I'm not particularly busy."

Sybill looked suitably concerned, just as she had been the last three dozen times she had visited Uncle Acamar at work and gotten similar answers. The library liked being able to say they had reference librarians on staff, but apparently not so much that it would actually tell patrons about them, or put their offices in particularly discoverable locations.

Sybill sighed, walked around the desk to get a hug, and sat down in the chair across from his desk. "Do muggle libraries have reference librarians?"

"Oh, yes! They do. I went into the muggle section once, back in the seventies before the ministry convinced the museum to kick them out so we'd have more space. Their reference librarians had actual desks you could see from the lobby, and when I talked to one of them, he said someone asked him a question at least once a day! I assume with all the fancy technology muggle libraries have now, they must be getting absolutely pestered with questions.

Enough about my excellent work habits and value to British wizardry. You look like this isn't just a social visit. Have you been having nightmares again?"

Sybill sunk a few inches into the chair, confronting thoughts she had managed to put off for a moment.

She nodded. "Oh. Yes."

Watching her hesitate, Acamar stood up, and waved his wand at the door a few times. "There. No one can hear us in here. Of course, we can still hear out there, in case somebody actually comes knocking." He grinned at that, then quickly looked serious again, and sat back down.

"Thanks." She just sat there, looking into her lap.

"They were prophetic this time, weren't they?"

She nodded.

He sighed. She often needed to be drawn out. He came up with the grimmest thing he could think of, to start out with: "And, let me guess... of course, Voldemort returns, plunges us all back into war for years, finally taking over the ministry, in the process killing everyone you ever knew, ever? Oh, after torturing them first, of course!" he ended, triumphantly, and then realized she was looking up at him and crying.

"Oh Merlin, I'm sorry Sybill! What did I say? It was an awful joke to make, I know, but I thought it would help to give you some perspective. I guess the dreams must have been pretty bad this time." He came around his desk to kneel next to her, and conjured a handkerchief for her. She put her glasses in her lap and blew her nose.

"You . . . it . . . he . . ." She shook her head, not knowing where to begin. "Yes."

"Yes, they were bad?"

"No. Yes. What you said. That . . . that was it. For the last three nights. What do I do? I can't tell Dumbledore; he'll do something crazy!"

"Wait, what was it? What I said? Was that too close to the truth?"

"Yes." She sniffled. "That was basically it. The dreams, that is. For three nights."

"Um . . . So, are you sure you're interpreting the dreams correctly? I know, you're the seer, but prophecies are usually pretty cryptic, right?"

"It wasn't a prophecy. I mean, it was, but not like you mean. I think?"

He raised his eyebrows, baffled. This was pretty normal for Sybill. You just had to wait, and it would all get out in some sort of order.

"A regular prophecy-prophecy is where I go into a trance and say stuff I don't remember later. Then whoever hears it assumes I remember it, and runs away to tell Dumbledore, who doesn't tell me about it but runs off and leaks it to half the world. Then I have to be really, really annoying until Minerva or Filius tells me what it was, just to make me go away. Minerva really thinks I'm like that, you know? At least, I think she does? But then I'm always sorry I asked because it sounds bad and really _is_ cryptic.

That's the kind of prophecy that pretty much always comes true no matter what, although sometimes that's because you can interpret it any which way."

"Right, right, and dreams aren't prophecies. But they're still subject to lots of interpretations, aren't they?"

"Not this kind! Sometimes you get the nice metaphorical kind where you're walking down Diagon Alley and you can't find your shoes, and you're late for class. But sometimes they're clear. I mean, explicit. You see things as they will be, and you _know_ there's nothing metaphorical about it. Or at least, you do if you have the Gift."

"And those are explicit enough that you can change them—prevent the future from the dream from happening, and be sure you did it, without endless reinterpretation? So whatever it was that you saw, there was an implication that somebody was supposed to make it happen differently?"

"Well, that's what my grandmother said. I don't know if I believe it. I haven't had lots of the explicit kind of dream, and I've never tried to change anything. Or tell anyone but you. So nothing ever got changed."

"Oh, that's unfair, remember I bet on that one Quidditch match you predicted once . . ."

Sybill looked confused.

He sighed. "It was a joke, sorry. Those don't seem to be working for me today. Um, but if you ever happen to dream about a Quidditch match . . ."

She managed a faint smile. "I'll tell you right away."

"So what do you think you are supposed to change this time?"

"It's not up to me! Somebody else can . . ."

"Right, sorry. So what is supposed to get changed once you find the right hero and tell them?"

"Everything? Everything you said? You-Know-Who, the war, the ministry, the . . ." She trailed off, thinking of the Great Hall after the battle.

Acamar looked suddenly very concerned. "Wait, you were serious? Those things were really there? Sybill, I'm so sorry. I couldn't have known . . . I didn't mean to suggest something that you might actually have dreamt."

"It's okay." Her tears had been dry for some time now; talking was helping. "Those things were what I dreamed about, though. There was a lot of detail. Just not anything that seems like it would help to tell anyone. I saw . . . You-Know-Who, but not how he managed to come back?"

"Hmh."

"I think . . . if I told Dumbledore, he'd want to make sure it all happened? He'd think that was the only way to get through it all."

"Hah! And then Dumbledore himself would be the one who caused it all! Actually, that sounds plausible. So I agree, don't tell Dumbledore. That narrows our pool of potential heroes down by one. Maybe more if you rule out anyone who would go running to Dumbledore.

Could you do something for me? Could you go through everything you remember from the dreams for me, if you can manage it? I think that's the only way to find something to work with."

"Do we have to do that here? Your office is kind of cramped. It isn't comfortable, and I can't think as well."

"I know, I know, it would be better if it were a high tower, with the windows open, and lots of silk. And probably incense too . . ."

"Uncle Acamar!"

"And wizards shouldn't put the reference librarians where no-one can find them, either. I'll take the afternoon off, and we'll go someplace else. Hm. No real point putting a sign on the door, and the head of the reference department isn't in on Saturdays anyway. So we can just go, I think." He smiled, and took her out by the hand, locking the door behind him with his wand.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, they sat in Acamar's living room. Sybill was lying on the couch, staring unhappily at the ceiling; Acamar sat in a large upholstered armchair, shuffling through a stack of notes in his lap. On the coffee table between them were an empty teapot, a pair of cups and saucers, and a plate full of crumbs.

"There really isn't much here to go on, other than convincing people to learn to fight better. I suppose you can work on your aim with those crystal balls."

A faint smile. "I was quite good at it in the dream."

"Well, maybe that's because you practiced."

"Oh. Maybe. I'd have to find a way to practice without anyone noticing."

"I was sort of joking. Honestly, Sybill, I'd prefer it if you weren't there fighting the Death Eaters in the first place. So, you're the seer here. If you were going to get more details, what do you do next?"

"Oh! You mean other divinations. Nothing would be as specific as the dreams. There are a few things I can try. I should have thought of that, but I was too upset. That's okay, they're unlikely to work, after a dream like that. But I'll try them."

"Might I ask what you are planning?"

She smiled. "I have to keep some secrets, don't I?

Uncle Acamar, I really am feeling a lot better. I think I would like to get going now. It was nice to walk around Muggle London this morning—really nice—I think I'll do that again before going back to Hogwarts." She picked up her bag from the floor, and pulled her glasses out.

"I know I keep saying this, but you ought to get some new glasses, Sybill."

"I don't want to change them. And everyone expects me to wear them. Here, give me a hug." She leaned down to him before he could make any order out of the paper in his lap. "I'm off." Then, a warm smile. "You know, you always make me feel better. Thank you." And with that, she was off through the floo for the Leaky Cauldron.

Acamar sighed, left the papers in the chair, and sent the tea set into the kitchen with a swish of his wand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To flesh out the summary, this story has a lot of original characters, which some people don't like (if so, here's your warning), and it also uses a lot of peripheral canon characters, which I assume is not much different if you are the sort of person who cares about these things. Some of that is by design, as I try to flesh out what the rest of the Harry Potter universe looks like once you get away from the immediate social circles of Harry and his friends. But a lot of it is just an artifact of starting the story in 1989, before all of Harry's cohort get to Hogwarts in 1991. So, while I have been told it leans excessively toward the borrowed universe end of things, it is definitely intended as fanfiction. Don't read too much into this -- as of chapter 48, 3/4 of the characters with either lines or internal monologue-type face time are canon (that is, 58/77, by my count -- I have no idea whether that's a lot or not, given the enormous size of the Harry Potter universe).
> 
> People care a lot about pairings -- I have no commitment to any in particular, and none have really manifested themselves 50-odd chapters in. This is kind of up to the characters, and I don't always know what they are going to do.
> 
> As to canon, I care about sticking to it only so far as it avoids confusion, but in a time travel story that kind of means being nitpicky about it. I will screw up lots, despite careful detail-checking. I apologize in advance!
> 
> After writing 180k words or so, it's fair to say this story is slow-paced by some people's standards. The characters tend towards scheming and manipulating, so there aren't a lot of flashy action sequences. This is deliberate, but not to everyone's tastes. On the other hand, a lot of it is really funny. Or at least, I think so, and many reviewers have agreed.
> 
> I didn't actually set out to write humor - it just turned out to be impossible not to. That said, sometimes my threshold for "subtle enough to actually be funny" is below readers' threshold of "overt enough to be recognized as a joke", but I can live with that. There's no real way to know if readers get particular jokes without giving them away. Anyway, almost everything in the story has a reason for being there. It might be a reason that only I like, but there's usually a reason!
> 
> I have copies of this story on other sites. Unless I redirected you here off of one with content restrictions where I couldn't post chapters 42-44, I'd appreciate if you read the story as it updates on whichever site you first found it. But it's not a big deal.
> 
> It also doesn't leap right into sex scenes, partly for pacing, and partly because I'm inexperienced at writing fiction. But it does, in fact, get there, and the warnings are totally for real, at least starting at chapter 42. I in fact tried to collect as many warning flags as possible.
> 
> Hopefully there will be at least some readers who like both the sex scenes and the rest of the story, but really, there is probably something to disturb everyone in there. If you are one of the "NO SLASH!" or "ONLY SLASH!" people, you have been warned. There's slash, non-slash, and omgwtf in there. I can't write out all the warnings that everyone might want without giving away excessive spoilers. Look, this story is just really, really weird in places, okay?
> 
> Anyway, my starting point here is just to write a long, sprawling, complicated time-travel story, which so far it is shaping up to be. Why redo-style time travel? It's a fixed, familiar genre of fanfiction. Everyone knows how it's supposed to go. I think I can bring something unique to it. 
> 
> Structurally, I think I can go on adding chapters for a very long time. I have plans, or at least an awful lot of notes. Sort of a permanent WIP. If that bugs you, sorry. At any rate, it's not a novel. Think of it like a comic or tv show - I might plan plot arcs, but I'm also trying not to get canceled. :) If I get through the first real year of story time - probably the first 250k words or so - I might try to do a more year by year, novel-like structure.
> 
> I started this as a writing exercise, not as great literature. That is one of the reasons the chapters are so variable - I'm trying different things, and (I hope) becoming a better writer in the process. This is my first attempt at fanfiction. If it makes you happy, awesome. Please tell me! I am especially interested in reviews from people who read the entire thing from start to finish, since I am writing it, and most people are reading it, a chapter at a time.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, here on Archive of Our Own, there are tags. I'm not really sure what the threshold is for using them! Per chapter would be obvious. Across the whole story is much harder, since I don't have a feel for who are the "major" characters yet, beyond a very small set of time travelers. Suggestions for how to think about this are welcome.


	2. Prologue, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 2: Prologue, Part II  
(Somewhere in London)

 

Sunday, August 27th, 1989. Somewhere in London.

 

Dave Simons did not know the name of the girl asleep in his bed. He assumed he had met her at a bar with his friends last night, but not which one. He remembered the first two they went to, and he was sure he hadn't picked her up there.

Her clothes were in various places on the floor, suggesting they hadn't been taken off all at once, or at least had not been tossed all in the same direction. Everything was accounted for, though, so by process of elimination nothing was left on her. She was pretty. Maybe he would still look good to her in the morning, too? Or maybe she would scream, wondering how she wound up in a strange apartment. He hoped he had a good time while he was too drunk to remember it. Wait, did that make any sense? He wasn't sure.

Ouch. Headache. Water was good for hangovers, right? A minute later, he shuffled back from the kitchen with a half finished glass of water. He would have gotten one for the girl, but was afraid she'd just knock it over when she woke up screaming. Maybe later.

Right, name. Her skirt did not have pockets. The pockets in her jacket were empty. He couldn't find a purse anywhere else in the apartment, either. His roommate wasn't home—probably off to the library to study, or out jogging, or something equally terrifying. In any case, so much for his plan to cheat and get her name off of her ID. That had worked for his friend Sam once. Maybe it was the sort of thing that only worked in stories, or in the lives of people with more exciting lives than his.

Wait, no, that wasn't really fair, was it? There was a naked girl in his bed. _Something_ had to have gone right.

Okay. In stories you were supposed to make breakfast or something in this situation. An inspection of his shelf in the fridge turned up a bottle of mustard and several containers of leftovers that might have been curry, lo mein, and, well, something furry. That last went in the trash. The cabinet contained a box of Weetabix that had been open since last spring. He didn't dare touch his roommate's neatly organized food. It was . . . well, it would be more embarrassing if he weren't so hung over. Drink more water, right.

He really _didn't_ spend much time here, did he? His grades should probably be better than they were, for all the time he spent on campus.

The girl seemed to be sleeping pretty soundly; she hadn't moved at all in response to all his rustling around. He had no intention of being right next to her when she woke up (because of the screaming, and maybe the throwing things), and anyway she looked so peaceful.

He gathered up her things and put them neatly on top of all the other things currently on his chair. Then he got a bit of notebook paper from his bag and left her a note, in case she woke up while he was in the shower:

 

\----------------------

Dear girl who is in my bed:

Hi, my name is Dave. I'm in the shower. Please don't freak out if you are hungover and don't remember anything. In case you run away screaming and then change your mind, my number is ___. None of the food in the kitchen is mine, but we could go out if you want, and maybe you should get yourself some water. Oh god this is long.

Dave

\-----------------------

 

Fifteen minutes later he had showered and shaved, and was back in his room staring at the still-sleeping girl. He carefully hid his now-embarrassing note, but tucked a shorter one with his name and number into her jacket pocket, just in case. It seemed like the sort of clever thing other people would have done.

At this point he was standing, naked, in his bedroom, with a naked girl asleep in his bed, and had absolutely no idea what to do next. Maybe he was supposed to get back in bed, wake her with a kiss, and they would have wild, passionate sex for the rest of the day? That . . . could go wrong in too many ways. He got dressed, picked up his bag, and went to the living room, telling himself he'd get a head start on his homework, or at least, start it the day before it was due instead of the night before.

After staring at a list of French prepositions for five minutes, he gave up and decided to see what was on the telly. This, too, belonged to his roommate, and he didn't use it often, but he had never had trouble getting the remote to work before. Maybe its batteries were dead? He got up and tried to turn it on from the set; nothing. It was plugged into the outlet. All the other wires were plugged in somewhere, and so were presumably not the problem. He tried banging it softly on the side. Still nothing. Well, it wasn't his fault! He hadn't done anything, or at least, not that he remembered.

He wound up staring out the window for most of the next twenty minutes, going through possible conversations with the girl in his room, once she woke up.

"Hi, I'm Sybill."

He jumped, spinning around. "Ack! I'm sorry! I mean, for jumping like that."

She was still naked. She looked amused, and maybe a little nervous, but was definitely not screaming or running.

"That's alright. I can move very quietly. Did we, er, I mean, last night, er."

"Uhh. You were in my bed when I woke up? That is, I hope so? Oh god, I'm sorry!" he said, realizing his gaze had drifted downwards while he was talking.

She was smiling. That was good? Then she looked uncomfortable, inducing a brief panic in him.

"Um, where's your bathroom?"

"Down the hall, on the left. I can find you a towel, if you'd like to use the shower!" He called after her.

"That would be nice." she said, and closed the door.

Dave was incredibly relieved to find a clean towel in the bottom drawer of his dresser; embarrassment averted. He listened for the toilet to flush, and then waited a minute for water to run, thinking he'd offer the towel at that point. He waited another minute. Then the bathroom door opened and she stuck her head out. "Dave, how does your shower work?"

It was a very simple shower. He had no idea what might be confusing about it, or how to articulate how it worked. It was like every bad porn scenario ever—he'd have to go in there, and . . . No. Don't overthink it.

"It should be really simple, but it's hard to describe. At least, when I'm hung over it is. Can I just show you?"

"Okay." She gave him the same smile from earlier, which he was finding hard to interpret.

His bathroom wasn't very big, and she was just standing in the middle of it, so he didn't know what else to do but brush past her. He was still critiquing the porn movie, but she was really pretty, and breasts. Damn it. His face was beet red.

"Here," he said, demonstrating with the single knob, "this starts out cold, and if you turn it all the way in the other direction it's really hot. You might have to readjust it a bunch of times—sorry about that. To get the shower you pull up on this thingy." He let the shower splash briefly, and then turned the knob off again, letting the toggle fall back down. "Uh," he started, pointing, "there's soap, and you can use my shampoo if you want—sorry I don't have any conditioner. I left the towel on the rack on the door . . . and that was all way more complicated than you needed. Sorry."

"No, you were helpful." She gave him that smile again, kissed him on the cheek, stepped into the tub (legs! damn it), and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

Okay, if this were a porn movie, she would have contrived to get him in the shower with her. So that's okay. Damn it, he thought, imagining her under the water, running the soap along . . . argh! And he was just standing there stupidly, he should let her be, this was creepy.

"So where do you think we met?" she asked, raising her voice above the running water. Okay, if it's a porn movie, it's now a really weird one.

"Uh, probably a bar? I mean, I was bar-hopping with some of my mates, and I remember the first two bars." He hadn't meant to be that honest, but whatever.

She laughed. "I think I went into a few different bars, too. I'm from out of town, so at first I was just following people around who looked like they knew where they were going."

"So are you here on vacation? Were you staying somewhere else?"

"No, I work up in Scotland and took the train down for the day to see a friend. I didn't feel like going back quite yet, so I went for a walk. No one will miss me if I'm gone for the weekend."

What did that mean? No boyfriend back at home?

"What work do you do?" It came out awkwardly, and he felt like a dirty American for asking that question to someone he just met, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I teach at a private school. You've probably never heard of it. 11-17-year olds, but I usually don't teach any younger than 13. Very old school, thinks highly of itself, eccentric faculty. Kind of stuffy, really. The countryside is nice, but I don't get out much."

"Oh! What do you teach? What school is it?"

Laughter. "That's all I'm going to tell you! I was wandering around London because I wanted to _avoid_ thinking about that part of my life." She paused, splashing around as if she was doing her hair. "I appear to have succeeded."

"Oh. Uh, good! I'm glad."

"I slept really well last night. No nightmares. Getting drunk and going home with a boy I just met was a good plan."

"Wait, you planned that ahead of time?" That sounded kind of worrisome.

"I planned it little by little. I planned each drink after the previous one, and I assume I planned to seduce you when I met you . . . I probably shouldn't have said that, right?" She made that sound like a sincere question, but went on, perhaps to cover for herself. "I don't remember much of it, but it must have happened that way."

He had no incentive to contradict any of that, so he didn't.

"Do you frequently go to bars to meet people?" He could kick himself, that sounded awful.

"Hah! No, but maybe I should? I think that's all that I want to say about myself. Since you don't know anything about me, I can be whoever I want right now, right? I'm enjoying being who I am right now. Also I can't get the shower to turn off."

"Just turn the knob all the way to the cold side."

The water abruptly ceased, and she pulled back the curtain and stepped out in front of him. There was that smile again, and god she's gorgeous.

"Here's your towel" he said, grabbing it off the rack behind him and handing it to her.

"Thank you. Do _you_ frequently have conversations with women while they are taking showers?"

 

 __

Several hours later, they were sitting together on a park bench, a few blocks from Dave's apartment.

"You know, you're a lot less nervous around me than you were before," Sybill teased, poking him. Then, with a straight face, "it's because I'm wearing clothes now, isn't it?"

"No, although that's sad. It's kind of hard not to be nervous when you're talking to a gorgeous, naked girl with whom you might or might not have had sex the night before."

Sybill blushed. "Next time I get that drunk I'll have to remember to take notes."

"Well, you said you were in a better mood than you had been in years—that's got to be evidence we did _something_ , right?"

"Or evidence we did something right," she replied, sticking out her tongue. What was she, sixteen? She had never really gotten the chance to interact with boys this way before.

"All I really know is that I have excellent taste in girls when I'm drunk. I wish I could go back in time and thank drunk me."

"Oh, you wouldn't remember because you were drunk so you wouldn't go insane from talking to yourself... no, the later you would be sober, so either both of you would have had to get drunk, and I would have taken advantage of you both, or else you would have just left a note."

"Wait . . . I'm not sure how I'd feel about that. Clearly I need to take you with me if I ever get access to a time machine, though, to avoid screwing something up."

"Oh, everyone says avoiding paradox is just a matter of common sense. You just want me along for the taking-advantage-of bit." She paused. "I never get to say things like that, ever. You don't really understand your life until you get to step back from it and do something else. I don't want to go back to that school, now, and pretend to be lots of things I'm not . . . I ought to, soon, though. I should start heading back to the train station shortly."

"Couldn't you find another place to work?"

Sybill looked pained. "It's complicated. I can't talk about it."

"That sounds really bad. Like, that alone sounds like a good reason to get out."

"I have my reasons. Merlin, I hate sounding mysterious like that. I really need to go."

"Merlin? What does that mean? Can I call you? Why was asking about that scary? I'm sorry! I didn't mean . . ."

"Oh, it's just a swear word I taught myself to avoid saying worse things in front of the children."

"I think that's not true, but I have no idea why it would matter." Dave frowned. "Seriously, though, I'd like to talk to you again. Even if you don't, you know, wind up in my bed again."

"Maybe I will come look for you the next time I'm in London, but I can't make any promises." She stood up. "I'll walk you back to your apartment, and then I insist on going."

"Okay. My number's in your pocket, if you want it."

"That's sweet of you, but you shouldn't count on me calling."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"What? No, you did everything right." She gave a small smile. "That's the problem. You made me very happy for a day, and now I have to go back to my life."

"Oh."

They walked in silence, holding hands, the rest of the way to his door.

She turned to face him. "I'm not going to come up. I really need to get going. Today was really nice. I know maybe going straight out to breakfast wasn't what you wanted to have happen . . . under other circumstances . . . I mean, when we were drunk, I don't _feel_ sore, but I don't know why I woke up so happy. Um. I don't think I'm very good at this." She stepped up to him and, a bit awkwardly, leaned in to kiss him.

After a minute or so, she was crushing his lips against his teeth and squeezing him so tightly it hurt. And then she was trembling, and he felt her tears on his face. She let him go, looked into his eyes for a second, then turned and walked away as quickly as she could.


	3. Prologue, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still setting up the premise. This will be the last we hear about Trelawney for a good long while.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 3: Prologue, Part III  
(A Plan, Sort Of)

 

Sunday, November 19, 1989.

 

Acamar Dunlin was in his workshop at home when Sybill arrived through the floo in the living room. "I'm in here!" he called.

"What are you doing with all this?" she said, peering through her oversize glasses at his current project. The workshop had a large table in the middle of it, on which was placed a thick glass dome about four feet in diameter, resting on a granite base. Within that were two smaller domes, each on their own base, and each containing a small glass vial and half of a lizard suspended, nearly motionless, in a small hole. Further examination revealed that it was probably two halves of the same lizard.

"A lizard?"

"Oh yes, a sand lizard. I caught it out on the heath myself, with one of those loopy thingies and a bag."

"But what are you doing with it?"

"Ah! I think it's quite clever, although of course I'm biased. The two ends of that hole there are chronologically desynchronized. Looking from left to right, you are seeing a fraction of a second into the past, and from right to left, the same distance into the future. The lizard is there because it's a living thing with at least a rudimentary consciousness. The universe doesn't like that, you see, taking a conscious thing and putting it in two different times at once. So it struggles to compensate by, more or less literally, pulling time off of the lizard, which then gets deposited on it in the form of dust. This is what you find in a time turner, although they normally produce it differently.

The little vials have a simple, low-power dust gathering charm like you might use on a feather duster—they just suck loose bits of things into themselves. Of course you get more microscopic bits of lizard dandruff than time dust, but I can sort that out later."

"Is that bad for the lizard? I can see it blinking, so I can tell it's alive, I think," she said, looking closer.

"Oh no—I mean, it probably doesn't like it very much, but after letting it thrash around at first I decided it was safer in a body-bind. I let it out each night and put it back in that tank over there." He gestured to the counter on the far wall, where a small glass box held some plants, two small bowls, a flat stone, and a heat lamp. "The glass domes are charmed to open up when you need them to."

"But why is it all under glass?"

"Well, the small ones are containing the spells that create the time differential. And the big one is just there in case everything blows up."

"Oh." She paused, contemplating this. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why all of this? Isn't time dangerous to meddle with?" She looked worried.

"Well, of course it is, if you screw up. But this is only a tiny time differential, and the only reason it produces so much dust is that I stuck the lizard in there, instead of the crystal rods the Ministry uses."

"Uncle Acamar, you're not trying to make a time turner, are you?"

"Oh, heavens no, those things are made with way more precision than I'm capable of here. You need just the right amount of dust, and the charm that responds to the turning has to be just so, or else you have people getting hurt or going insane. And besides, I have enough dust for dozens of them by now." He walked over to a metal case on the counter, opening it to show a dozen stoppered vials resting in fitted velvet indentations. He lifted that up to show that the box was bigger on the inside, and had multiple trays of vials down in it.

"Dozens of . . . time turners?"

"Oh yes, assuming I could also purify the dust from the lizard bits down to Ministry standards. Hm. Not that there actually is a Ministry standard for lizard bits per million in time turner dust—I suppose if you asked them they would say 'none! there should be no lizard bits whatsoever!'" He paused, grinning. "Oh, come on, Sybill! You're supposed to ask 'but what are you planning on doing with all that time dust, Uncle Acamar?'"

"Er, what are you planning on doing with all that time dust, Uncle Acamar?"

"Why, trying to prevent your nightmares from coming true, of course!"

Sybill settled back into her familiar deer-in-headlights look. Acamar held his grin steady for a moment longer than he had to, then felt guilty about it.

"Okay, maybe that was overly dramatic. But I do have a plan for all this dust. Like I said, with a time-turner, you care about precision down to approximately the minute, or maybe even second, I don't know. You are also trying to keep things in a single, stable timeline so that time, or the universe, doesn't rebel and stop you. So you are trying to get a human being and everything they are carrying safely back to a _very_ specific time and place. Clear enough so far?"

Sybill nodded.

"But what if you don't care about any of those things? What can you do then? As it turns out, you can do quite a lot, especially if you exploit time's own resistance to paradox, instead of trying to avoid running afoul of it."

"You would deliberately create a paradox?"

"No—I'd do what I did with the lizard. If you want time to do a certain thing for you, you can coax it into going along with it by creating a situation where a paradox _would_ happen if it weren't for time's ability to prevent it. You have to know enough about how paradox gets avoided in order to know how to trigger the behavior you want, of course. But it's a relatively straightforward principle—you can see it operating right here in front of you."

"Oh. Do you actually think it needs the big dome? How dangerous is this?"

"Well, that's hard to know. The dome is there more to avoid risks. I'm a librarian, not an auror, you know."

"I don't think you ever answered what you're going to do with all the dust."

"Right! So easy to get sidetracked." He opened a cabinet and pulled out a lumpy cloth sack. "We are going to use these!" he explained, reaching in and coming back holding a golden snitch. He let go of it in mid-air, where it spread its wings and hovered. "You know, these were by far the most expensive part of this whole undertaking. Five galleons apiece, and this model is basically a children's toy, for practice—no sense memory or any of that fancy stuff."

"You know I can help with the cost, if you need it. But, what are they _for_?"

"Oh, don't worry about the cost," he protested, waving dismissively. "An old man needs _something_ to spend his money on."

"You're only 51."

"Hah. Anyway, I got the snitches because I wanted something that as many wizards as possible would naturally want to grab. It's a wonder no one ever put a portkey on one to use it as a trap before. Hm. Of course, maybe that worked all too well, and we never heard." He looked briefly concerned, then brightened.

"In any case, _we_ want it to be a very good trap. The idea, you see, is to do what I'm doing to this lizard, except on a much more, um—epic, I think—scale. Take two of these," he said, with a snitch in each hand, "and put a sort of gate between them, although not quite as literally as you see here. Get one on either end, chronologically speaking, of our subject, so that from the perspective of the universe they are in two times at once—in a sort of superposition, you could say. Done right, time should respond to this indignity by moving the consciousness of their future self into the body of their past self, or at least merging the two! That's the plan, at any rate.

The snitches will have to have some sophisticated charms on them in order to pick good subjects independently, of course, since we can't go to the future ourselves to pick them, and your dreams aren't that detailed. I'm still working on that. I suppose out of fairness the charms will have to make sure the people really want to come, since we're going to destroy their timeline."

"Destroy?"

"Oh yes, that's the whole point, isn't it? And it's also why we don't have to be so precise—just moving a consciousness, we only care about precision down to a few _years_ , and the future we're trying to change is so far away that we can blow it to smithereens, metaphorically speaking of course, without a risk of paradox. And we'll use a gigantic quantity of time dust in a one-time event that consumes it.

I think I've figured out how to link up all the snitches so that it all happens simultaneously from our perspective, too—the future snitches have to all grab people from the timeline of your nightmares, even if they don't open all at once here on the end proximate to us. I think I can do that."

Sybill's eyes widened. "You want to do this multiple times?"

"Well, the dust is easy enough to make, and we need to make sure it works. You know, leave ourselves room for error. Once someone comes back we can't force them to do anything in particular. Making sure the past and future snitches agree on the same subject is tricky; I haven't worked that out yet. Don't want to pair minds and bodies willy-nilly."

"You think something could go wrong, and pull a mind back into someone else's body? You can't let that happen! That's a terrible thing to do to someone, Uncle Acamar."

Acamar put on his best confident smile. "Well, I'm sure I'll find a way of preventing that."

"Are you sure this will work? And no one has ever tried this before? Why not?"

"Pretty sure, not to my knowledge, and I'll answer the third when the British Wizarding Library explains why it arranges things so that no one ever comes to see the reference librarian!" He said this with the barest hint of bitterness, but overall looked quite triumphant. "Um, that's your real answer, I think: Because no one ever asks the reference librarian."


	4. Tonks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adding Tonks, who will be one of the main characters.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 4: Tonks

 

Thursday, April 30th, 1998.

 

Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin sat in an old armchair, nursing her two-week old son. She was twitchy and restless, feelings which in turn she felt guilty about having.

"Yes, Teddy, I know I'm supposed to be thinking of nothing other than you right now. You look so secure and certain that I really will, too. No worrying about battles and evil wizards or crazy husbands who keep freaking out that their lives are going well for a change. If you're happy, you're just happy, right? I guess you think life is good so long as you have a nipple in your mouth. I guess that's fair enough."

She stared out the window of her parents' living room, watching a breeze ruffle the blossoms on the crabapple tree outside. It came through the open window every so often, bringing with it a faint sweet smell and an occasional pink petal. Tonks screwed up her face, and in a moment her hair matched the petals.

"There, now, you try!" she said, bring a lock of pink hair around to show Teddy. He ignored her.

"Spring's a good time to be born in. I wonder how long it will be until you are falling out of that tree like I did." She paused, deciding that anecdote of childhood nostalgia didn't work when she had climbed it, and once again fallen out, as recently as last summer. "Well, I was pretty good about not doing stuff like that while I was pregnant, at least. You're a tough little guy, lucky for you. Maybe you'll inherit your coordination from your father. Hm? I'll teach you all the best noses to make, and he'll teach you how to not trip over things and how to stay out of trouble! Avoiding getting caught is fine too, of course. Right, you don't care, you have a breast. I can make it bigger if you like . . ." She screwed up her face.

Teddy's eyes got wide as the breast expanded at him, and he was soon wailing in distress at the surprise.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, here, have it back the way it was! Please don't cry like that! You look so adorable when you're shocked, though—there's just that second before you start crying, when you're trying to figure out what just happened—it's priceless. I need to make sure Remus gets a photo of that before you get too old. I wonder where our old camera is . . ."

Teddy, who had stopped crying, and was now looking up at her as if he understood, made a final, further noise of indignation, and having made his point, returned to the nipple in front of him.

"You know, _most_ boys didn't cry when I did that. They were all a little older, though."

After a while Teddy fell asleep. Tonks put him down in his crib in another room, and returned to pacing the floor. She had just turned to walk towards the window when through it came a whirring blur of gold and black. It stopped a few feet from her and hovered, giving her a chance to identify it as a snitch.

"Huh."

Someone had painted the body of the snitch black, leaving the wings their original gold. Tonks took a moment to second guess her impulse to make a grab for it, but decided if it were dangerous, it wouldn't have gotten through the wards. She had thrown every warding trick the aurors had taught her at the property after that last Death Eater attack; the yard would be a challenge for someone to find, and the house was virtually impenetrable to dark magic.

She waited too long to make up her mind, and the snitch darted out the window, where it resumed hovering, just out of reach.

"Okay, fine, you're a lost toy. You certainly don't look like a regulation snitch. I'll bite." With this, she apparated into the yard directly next to it. It wasn't so easy to take it by surprise, though, and it responded by zipping up a few feet, again just out of reach.

"Well, I suppose that's how it's played, right? I'll get my broom."

After checking on Teddy's monitoring charm, a few minutes later she was circling the house, trying to spot the snitch. She had played quidditch with friends when she was little, but hadn't really gotten to spend time flying for fun since she started at Hogwarts. It turned out that learning to dodge curses at high speed didn't contribute much to skill at snitch-hunting.

At last she caught a flash of gold from deep in the top branches of the crabapple tree.

"Oh, that is _not_ fair. You don't get to do that in a real game."

She flew in close, trying to find a safe, or mostly safe, way through the branches. The snitch, acting like a nervous squirrel, stayed on the far side of the trunk from her, leaving only its wings visible to give away its hiding place.

"You know I can see you there, right? Cheeky little bastard."

She had managed to squeeze through and land on the highest branch that would support her weight, broom in one hand, the other using a smaller branch to keep her balance. Obviously, she'd have to catch the snitch with her third hand.

"Okay, so I didn't think this through."

She rested her broom in an almost stable tangle of horizontal branches, and inched her way the remaining few feet to the trunk.

"GOTCHA!" she proclaimed, snatching it at last from around the trunk. She had it a few inches from her face, examining the peculiar paint job, when it opened in a blinding flash of light and released a cloud of dust that surrounded her. A fraction of a second later, she was standing in her bedroom, holding half of the snitch by its still-struggling wing.

The cloud of dust settled, along with several pages of handwritten notes that fell to the floor next to the other half of the snitch. "Well, that's certainly mysterious. Let's see..."

 

\--------

 

Dear Someone,

 

Assuming this worked, you are now a time traveler! Or at least, your consciousness is. As you are reading this, it's probably 1989, or a year or so thereafter. I'm afraid this method isn't terribly precise. So far I've only tested it on a lizard, and I don't think it was consenting. Sorry about that.

You were chosen by the charm on the snitch because you are well-placed to avert various catastrophes which have been foreseen in prophecy. Presumably you will know what those are and have a good idea what ought to be changed. Of course, if I knew what they were myself, I wouldn't have subjected you to this crazy scheme. You should go change them (although the charm is done at this point and I can't force you to do anything). This is a fresh timeline, so you don't have to worry about paradox. No, I don't think there's an easy way to get back to your old one.

The charm was also looking for people who would actually want to go back, but if I bungled that, you have my deepest apologies.

Naturally, even though you don't have to worry about paradox, you should still look out for all the ordinary things time travelers are supposed to look out for. I recommend Virgil Vella's Tangled Timelines: A Treatise for Travelers chapters 3, 4, and 7, but not all the stuff about paradox or the Ministry-approved blather in the appendices. The charm was supposed to pick someone with at least a rudimentary grasp of occlumency, but if you don't feel confident, or that part of the spell didn't work, I recommend Gerta Griffith's Manual of Occlumency, revised 3d Ed. (unfortunately you can't risk hiring a tutor at this point, for obvious reasons). If you don't want to be seen buying them, there are copies of both of those books in the British Wizarding Library; ask a reference librarian if you can't find something.

I've enclosed a list of suggested readings for you. As I said, I can't force you to do anything, but they all seemed quite useful to me. Of course, the only time-traveling I've ever done is the ordinary kind that goes one second per second into the future, so I hope you'll forgive me if my advice doesn't turn out to be very practical.

I plan on making several of these, so there might be some other time-travelers out there. Hopefully you don't wind up working at cross-purposes, or all meeting each other awkwardly in the stacks of the British Library. Chapter 7 of the Vella book is a pretty good treatment of that kind of situation, I think.

Needless to say, you'll get the Ministry, the Death Eaters, and Dumbledore's folks after you if you get found out, so you should probably destroy the snitch this came in, hide the reading list well, and burn the rest of this note when you get a chance.

May you have the very best of luck in this quest I have thrust upon you. My hopes and good wishes go with you!

 

Anonymous

 

\-------------

 

Tonks read the note with a painful knot growing in her stomach. If this were a joke, it was a remarkably elaborate one—her clothes had changed, and the decorations in her room had been changed back to how she had them as a teenager. The note itself could go either way; however improbable it was that she had gone back a decade, it was equally improbable that someone would accomplish it by luring her into the crabapple tree with an oddly-painted snitch, and then leave her with only a reading list to help her (alcohol would have been a far better choice, Tonks thought). True to his word, Anonymous _had_ enclosed a reading list of about twenty books, most, but not all, about time travel.

There was, of course, a fast and simple way to tell if this was just a prank—there were any number of simple spells that would tell you the time. Auror training, in fact, had taught her to cast them whenever you thought you might have been unconscious or otherwise experiencing lost time. Her wand was right there in her pocket. Swish, zigzag, poke, and she would have her answer. The prospect filled her with dread.

'I don't think there's an easy way to get back to your old one.' She sat on her bed, weak in the knees, and reread the note. Remus, Teddy. She had a family! She was really, truly happy for once! Why on earth would the charm think she ought to have consented to this?

Her door was open. She got up and shut it, then lay down on the bed. "Crap." She realized using the time spell wasn't viable anyway, at least until she knew whether it was before or after her seventeenth birthday. 1989. She might very well be sixteen. Sixteen! She might have another year left at Hogwarts. Heck, she still had nightmares about being late to class. The knot in her stomach twisted further.

She realized part of her was still listening for Teddy, who now might never exist. That . . . was too hard to wrap her head around. She'd cry about it later, but it was far too unreal for now, and other thoughts were going through her head.

Why would someone have picked her? Okay, if the note was to be believed, no one did; it was a spell. The wizard who did this might have never met her.

Well, for one thing, she knew a lot. An auror, a member of the Order, and a good friend to several people who seemed to have history hinge around them whether they liked it or not. She would have some opinions on what to change, once she found out what day it was. And auror training was nothing to sneeze at—she might be clumsy, but she was one of the most competent individuals in Britain when it came to dealing with dark wizards and crisis situations. Oh yeah, and she could look like anybody she wanted.

"Fair enough, snitch, fair enough. So let's go see what day it is and start changing history, shall we?" She tucked the pile of papers and the two halves of the snitch into a desk drawer and headed out into the hallway. Maybe she could find a Daily Prophet before having to talk to anyone.

"Good morning, Dora—or should I say afternoon?"

That was her dad. In the armchair facing away from her. It had a high back, and she couldn't see him, but that was her dad, who had been killed by Death Eaters. Would be. No damnit, that's the whole point, isn't it? There was the first item on her list of things to change.

"Dora?"

"Hi Dad." She briefly thought of making a joke about how long she had slept, and asking what day it was, but then realized her dad would just play along and make things up. There was the shuffling noise of a newspaper page being turned. The knot in her stomach untwisted slightly.

She looked over the edge of the chair, trying not to look at her dad, trying not to do anything that would trigger tears. Okay. June 17, 1990. Sunday. Her birthday was two weeks ago, she was free of the underage magic restrictions, and she had a whole summer ahead of her before starting her last year at Hogwarts. That, she could definitely work with.

"Dad, do you know if I had anything planned today?"

"Ha! If you have anything planned at all for the rest of the summer, it's news to me. If you are looking for something to do, you could always start your homework early." He stifled a laugh at that last thought.

"Oh sure, of course, because I want to spend all summer writing stuff for Severus Snape. You know I'll do it eventually, like, say, in the last week."

"I know, Dora, I was just teasing."

"Where's mum?"

"Out shopping."

"Okay. I think I'm going to go for a walk."

She went outside and looked up at the crabapple, which was a bit smaller than it had been a few minutes ago from her perspective. There were small green fruits on it by now. She patted it on the trunk, and headed off down the street.

The Tonkses didn't live in a wizarding village—their house, though heavily warded, was on an ordinary suburban street in a muggle neighborhood. Dad found it more familiar, being muggleborn, and it seemed to satisfy her mother's sense of order. Tonks had to admit that their street tended to have fewer explosions or monster attacks than were normally found in purely wizarding neighborhoods, so it was at least quieter.

As she wandered, she made a mental list of priorities. She could leap into action easily enough, but impulse control probably mattered here. Darn. Her list looked something like this:

 

\- Contact Remus? Argh. Where was he in 1990, anyway? Oh yeah, and I'm just barely above the age of consent. That's going to be weird. I'll come back to that.

\- How did Voldemort come back? Uh, first he tried growing on Quirrell's head -- how did that work? I can deal with that. Then there was that business in the graveyard? Yes, all preventable. Except, do we need him alive when we destroy the horcruxes?

\- Okay, those are a nice definite quest. The ring was under the floorboards at the gaunt shack; I could go get that right now and stop Dumbledore from, well, dying? Assuming I can avoid the curse myself. Diary—Malfoy has that, but seemed all to eager too part with it. We can work with that. The locket's still at 12 Grimmauld, and only Sirius can get in (side note—Sirius, right). The diadem is in the Room of Requirement, if I can find it in all that mess. Okay, straightforward enough. I'll go after it once I get to Hogwarts. Harry said he got the cup out of the LeStranges' vault, but the way they did it was crazy and even I couldn't pull it off. We'll make that Dumbledore's problem and just tell him not to touch it. Uh, everyone was sure Nagini was a horcrux, but we don't know if that's true, or where she is. That's six. Dumbledore said there were seven. Damnit. Did he ever tell us? I'll come back to that later—this is plenty for now.

\- Right. Harry. He's stuck with his relatives because of those bloody blood wards, but we could do quite a bit to help him _now_. Heck, he'd be, what, nine right now?

 

She really wanted to go check on Harry right away, but reined herself in and kept thinking.

 

\- So, Sirius. And Percy has Wormtail right now. Hm. He can stay right there until I have a solid plan for what to do about him, but I can't go doing anything that might get in the papers without dealing with him first, in case he sees it and panics.

\- Oh. Death Eaters. I do know quite a bit, don't I? I can pick them off at my leisure. And maybe Bella will stay in Azkaban this time. The dementors aren't loyal, though . . . no idea what to do about that. I don't think anyone else would know either.

 

"That seems like a decent start. Let's see what I can get done before mum and dad wonder where I am!" A quieting charm silenced the subsequent "pop!" of her apparating away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes, added 1/22/2011:
> 
> This is a good point to clarify some things that seem to be confusing reviewers.
> 
> There might not be explicit canon support for Tonks knowing about horcuxes. **For the purposes of this story right here** , in the original timeline Dumbledore discussed horcruxes at Order meetings Harry was not present for, although he might have lied to Harry about that. He did not tell anyone about Harry being a horcrux. He also did not talk to the Order about the Hallows, so Tonks doesn't know they are real. I'm assuming also that Tonks and Harry talked a great deal so long as they were in the same building, and that she knows much of what he did at those points in time. Also note that Nagini wasn't a horcrux yet in 1990; Tonks doesn't know that. Characters in this story may, and often do, confidently assert wrong things.
> 
> When a character talks as if the Order is or is not active at a certain point, that is evidence of their opinion. It's not exactly a corporate entity, so there's no true answer.
> 
> As to the effect of the snitches, it is more or less to drag the subject sideways through time, not precisely back. It is not neat and tidy like a time-turner -- it is designed to shred timelines, not create stable time loops.


	5. Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checking on Harry. This isn't supposed to be a Harry-centric story, but the universe kind of demands his involvement in the plot.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 5: Harry

 

Sunday, June 17, 1990, 1:07 PM. Little Whinging, Surrey.

 

Harry Potter was pulling dandelions out of his Aunt Petunia's flower beds. Everything that happened in the Dursleys' yard for the past few years had been done by Harry—planting, watering, weeding, mowing, fertilizing, raking . . . He didn't really mind it, at least when the weather was nice. This spring, his aunt had bought four dozen pink petunias, which Harry had dutifully taken care of. He tried to be nice to the plants; it wasn't their fault they shared a name with his aunt.

"That yard looks like it took a lot of work."

Harry turned around to see a girl, maybe a few years older than himself, with pink streaks in her hair. She was smiling at him, which neighbors generally didn't. Most of them had heard terrible things about him from the Dursleys, or in the case of anyone his own age, had been driven off by Dudley and his gang. Usually when anyone looked genuinely happy to see him, they were strangers, and Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon would grab him at that point and try to get Harry away from the person as quickly as they could. That had always been in a public place, not in front of his house.

"Thanks." He said, nervously. "It did, I guess. Take a lot of work."

"Did you do it all yourself?"

"Yeah."

"So was it you who decided to plant all those pink flowers, then?" She looked like she might be teasing him. Okay, that was more familiar.

"No, that was my aunt. They're petunias—she's named 'Petunia'".

"Oh, that sounded like teasing, didn't it. Sorry Harry, I didn't really think you'd plant those on purpose. Um, by choice, I mean."

"How do you know my name?"

"Crap. This isn't going well. It's a long story?" She looked at him hopefully.

"Uh, that's okay, I guess." Then he frowned and looked down to the end of the street, watching his cousin Dudley and some other boy, probably Piers Polkiss, coming towards them. Dudley would probably try to convince this girl to stop talking to him. Maybe Harry could make her go away before Dudley got a chance—no, it was too late, Dudley was already pointing at her.

"You should probably go."

"Oh, your cousin's coming. Don't worry, I'll be fine." She gave a smile clearly meant to be reassuring.

"No, I mean, uh . . ."

"And I'm not going to run away because of him, either. They're still a few houses away and can't hear us. I'm Dora, by the way. It's nice to meet you. Sorry I'm so god-awful awkward sometimes. Do you have to stick around here right now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we could go for a walk and get away from your cousin. Or we could wait and see what he does."

"I'm sorry, I don't really know you. You should really go before he gets here. He's not very nice. I mean, he's not going to be nice to _me_ if he sees me talking to you."

"But, he's already seen that..." she looked confused.

The fact that Dudley hadn't yelled at him or anything yet was a good sign. He actually looked cautious. Without saying anything, Dudley and Piers just hurried on through the front door, after Dudley gave Harry his best "I'm going to get you in trouble, now!" look.

A moment later Vernon Dursley yanked the door open, looked from Harry to the girl and back, and said "Boy! What are you doing? Get back to work!" And then, to the girl, "I'm sorry if the little freak has been bothering you. We've tried to teach him manners, but you know how it is with boys these days. Not like Dudley here!" he said, patting his son on the head as he peered out from behind Vernon.

"That's quite alright. Mr. Dursley, could I come in and speak to you for a few minutes in private, while your nephew here stays in the yard?"

That got some puzzled looks. "Are you selling something? What ever it is, we don't want any."

"No, no, it's about Harry, and I don't think you'd want me to say it where the neighbors might hear."

Vernon went pale. "Well, don't just stand about, get in here before anyone notices. Petunia, get down here! Piers, you take Dudley with you and run along home. Do it NOW, and don't talk to Harry on the way. I'll come pick you up later."

This was too unexpected for Harry to do anything, and in a moment he was left outside wondering what had just happened. The girl had looked about twelve, and seemed awkward enough when talking to Harry, but she showed absolutely no fear of Dudley or Uncle Vernon, and her expression when she saw them looked almost angry or even predatory. Harry couldn't hear anything from where he was. Vernon had locked the door after letting Dora in, and had then gone around and shut all the windows for good measure.

Harry ran to the door and put his ear up to it. It was Dora's voice, but she seemed older somehow.

". . . more monitoring charms than your prime minister's office, and you wouldn't want the neighbors seeing everyone who would show up if I had to defend myself. So forget it. Just because nobody bothered checking on Harry until now doesn't mean you can keep treating him like this, because . . ." Her voice went to a whisper, and Harry strained to hear.

"so much as . . . personally . . ." Harry had never wanted to overhear a conversation so much in his life. It sounded like this girl he just met had walked in and started threatening his aunt and uncle, and she was whispering to keep him from hearing. Why?

Then, brightly: "Okay? Now, you can tell Harry the truth now, or you can refuse to talk about it, but he's going to learn it from me or another one of us regardless of what you do. Oh, and don't try running away and hiding. I'm good at finding people. Um, I think that's it for now." Footsteps coming to the door! Harry ran back to the flower bed and pretended to be pulling dandelions.

The door opened, and Dora came out, turning back inside and waving, with a smile on her face that Harry found downright scary. "Cheers!"

"Wotcher, Harry! That was more fun than I've had . . . sorry—you don't know what this is about yet. I think I scared your aunt and uncle into behaving for a while. I need to get going—actually to do some stuff before my parents wonder where I went—but I'll come back to check on you, probably tomorrow. And I'll explain anything your relatives didn't. I doubt they'll feel like speaking to you, though."

Harry's eyes were big. He had no idea what had just happened. It certainly looked like his life might be about to get better.


	6. Interlude, Tonks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonks sits and thinks. Short.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 6: Interlude, Tonks.

 

Sunday, June 17, 1990. 10:34 PM.

 

Tonks was sitting on her bed, staring across the room at the briefcase on her desk. It was a magic-dampening box, designed for carrying dangerous artifacts. Inside it was another, smaller magic-dampening box, and inside of that was the ring of Marvolo Gaunt. It was making her uncomfortable, although not necessarily through magical means.

It had been surprisingly short work to pick up the cases in Knockturn Alley; they were widely sold and unregulated by the ministry. The shack had been where Dumbledore had said it was, and she could feel the presence of the ring as soon as she entered. A few quick privacy charms, and she started pulling up floorboards while standing in the doorway. The ring turned up in about twenty minutes, and she hovered it into the nested boxes without ever coming closer than twenty feet. It was probably just dripping with untriggered curses, but so far, so good.

She planned to take it to Gringott's in the morning. For all Dumbledore's power and good intentions, he was clearly not infallible. The past timeline's incident with the ring had showed that. Maybe the goblins would have a trick or two for dealing with horcruxes. Not that she could afford it, but she at least had enough squirreled away to pay for a vault for a year, and if the goblins _knew_ something was a potential burglary target, she was sure they would cheerfully put some absolutely deadly security on it, just for fun.

She was more worried about how to handle the conversation with Harry tomorrow. It seemed like it ought to have been something epic right at the outset, but she had stumbled over it and settled for scaring Vernon and Petunia. That, admittedly, had been something she had been dying to do for years, but it wasn't what she had originally gone there to do. What do you say? "You're a wizard, Harry!" seemed woefully inadequate.

In any case, she had managed to do the whole thing without using any magic and, thus, without triggering any of Dumbledore's little gadgets. Not that he'd necessarily notice after years of ignoring them, but if he had, she assumed he would have shown up to investigate, which seemed not to have happened. She intended to keep him in the dark about her involvement with Harry's life for the foreseeable future.

Depressingly, she had no memory of what she had done the summer between her sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts. She was pretty sure she had hung out with friends for much of it, but a lot of those memories had been displaced by the stresses of the auror academy and the war. Oh, and by some good memories of times with Remus. She smiled, and then was immediately anxious again. How the heck was she going to get in touch with him? "Dear Remus, You don't know me, but in an alternate future I convinced you to marry me and I had your baby. Now that I have been thrown into this timeline, you should just take my word for it that you are in love with me." Hm. Probably not, but it would be awfully convenient.

The right way was probably to convince Dumbledore to hire Remus for the Dark Arts position earlier than had originally happened. Unfortunately the best time for Remus to be teaching, from Harry's perspective, would be while Harry was actually attending. Well, what would happen if she simply told Remus where Harry was? That was the reason he hadn't checked up on Harry the first time around, right? Dumbledore had done his level best to cut Harry off from the wizarding world, and Tonks wasn't sure that was a bad thing by itself, but Remus was also the closest thing Harry had to a loving family member who was not in prison. Which led to Sirius . . . She had an idea for how to deal with Sirius, but it had the potential to go seriously wrong in unforeseeable ways.


	7. Not Quite As Planned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonks returns the next day to check on Harry.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 7: Not Quite As Planned

 

Monday, June 18, 1990.

 

It had been a very productive morning. Her parents both worked, so she was free to come and go as she pleased during the day without anyone noticing. Ah, the joys of being a teenager.

The goblins had wanted a staggering 20,000 galleons to uncurse the ring and destroy the soul fragment within it, assuming they were able to, and wouldn't even look at it until she could make a down-payment. Some of that was undoubtedly mark-up they knew they could get away with, but she couldn't begrudge them that. From the point of view of wizarding Britain as a whole, 20,000 galleons was cheap, assuming their curse breakers could handle it, but Tonks had no idea where she was going to get it from now that she had made this her problem.

So the case had never been opened, and Tonks left it in a vault which the goblins were happy to rent to her until she could come up with the money. Goblins don't take unnecessary risks.

"You know that if any Death Eaters knew this was here and that I planned to have it destroyed as soon as I could afford to, they'd consider breaking it to steal it, right?" she had asked, as she was getting back into the cart. She was sure that the goblin would have raised an eyebrow if it had possessed one. "And if Voldemort returned, he would probably make a try for Nicolas Flamel's vault, too? I'm not saying Gringott's is insecure of course! It's just that if you had some particularly nasty traps you wanted to experiment with anyway, well, those would be good places to start."

The goblin just smiled in what Tonks assumed passed for politeness, and started the cart. "Thank you, Miss Tonks." it yelled, over the rushing air. "We'll take that under advisement."

Tonks screwed up her face and changed her features again before they got back to the surface. She had some shopping to do before going to check on Harry.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________

 

When Tonks got to #4 Privet Drive, she found the car gone and no one home. Okay, maybe her strategy yesterday hadn't been as successful as she had hoped. At this point, she could hunt them down with tracking charms, maybe, if Dumbledore hadn't found a way to interfere with them even when Harry was away from home. She could also just wait—Vernon would eventually need to go to work, and they would want to be home in time for Dudley to get back to school in the fall. Idiots.

Unfortunately, that last option, she thought, relied on the Dursleys behaving like sane, sensible people, which, for all their obsession with normality, they weren't. She had also promised Harry that she would check up on him, and couldn't stand the thought of him going for so long without knowing what was going on. At least, she would hate being kept in suspense for that long if it were _her_ in that situation. She walked back out of the neighborhood, until she was sure she was out of range of Dumbledore's monitoring charms, and started casting tracking spells.

She was scared to try to track Harry directly. The Dursleys, too, seemed to be covered by whatever Dumbledore had put in place. Not so with Vernon's car. This was easier than most cases she had been given as an auror, but it would be annoying to hunt down nevertheless.

In the academy she had learned a variety of tracking techniques. The most fun of them—simply getting on a broomstick and following a pointing spell—wasn't viable during the day in muggle areas. The next best involved triangulation from some well-placed floo and apparation points available only to aurors; again, not an option here. Nevertheless, she had been drilled on ad hoc tracking by triangulation.

 

* * *

 

An hour and a half later, she was on a country road in Scotland, a few hundred feet away from the gate to a private campground which must have taken the Dursleys at least ten hours to drive to. The distance hadn't delayed her very much, but the Dursleys were now in a fairly public place. It was the small, dense kind of private campground, too, with a pool and other amenities. Tonks wasn't sure how camping worked for muggles, exactly, but she could tell that no one here was really "roughing it".

She considered how to tackle the situation. On the one hand, it was packed with muggles, including lots of children running around. On the other, Dumbledore's charms were far away, and she could use magic as much as she liked so long as it remained discreet. Tonks cast several muggle-repelling charms on herself, followed by a muggle-specific notice-me-not, and then walked in the front gate.

She saw, or rather heard, Dudley right away. He was running around the pool, trying to hit a smaller boy with an inflatable toy duck. There didn't seem to be any adults around who were responsible for intervening.

Unable to do anything about it without revealing herself, Tonks proceeded further into the campground to search for Harry. She was confronted with a maze of tents and a bewildering variety of muggle vehicles, some of which were practically small houses on wheels. Tonks wondered what the point of going camping in one of those was.

Eventually she came to the back of the campground where there was a grassy strip containing only tents. She found Vernon's car in the middle of it, parked in front of a large, blue, new-looking tent, from which she heard the sound of snoring. It had several windows which were just barely zipped open at their tops, but in her 12-year-old-Dora disguise she wasn't tall enough to see in any of them. Then she noticed her shadow falling against the wall of the tent, and had an idea to get Harry's attention if he was awake.

She made her shadow wave. Nothing happened from the tent, and the snoring continued, which at least meant Vernon and Petunia were asleep. Well, Vernon was asleep, and Petunia was asleep or terrified. Tonks waved both hands above her head and jumped up and down. Nothing.

She had a memory of her father tucking her into bed at night, and making shadow animals against the wall. She had never been very good at it, but it was worth a try. She stepped back so her shadow was only against the grass, and managed to put together what she thought was a passable rabbit. She held it over her head to make it appear at the base of the tent, where she made it hop along and wiggle its ears. She tried to make it open and close its mouth, too, which made it briefly look like a horrible monster. There was a giggle from inside the tent, and her heart leaped.

She tried another shape, this time deliberately going for a monster. Monsters turned out to be easier than rabbits. More giggling. She walked closer to the tent, so her whole profile was visible, and made a beckoning gesture. There was again only snoring. She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. This was met by some rustling noises. She put her thumbs to her ears and wiggled her fingers, then put her hands back on her hips. Very, very slowly at first, the zipper on the tent door started opening, and eventually Harry stuck his head out. He looked scared.

Tonks put her finger to her lips. Harry nodded, and finished getting out of the tent, zipping it up behind him. There was a two-rail fence at the back of the campsite, with a copse of trees surrounded by pastureland on the other side. Forest was visible a quarter mile in the distance, where foothills rose up in front of mountains. Tonks clambered over the fence, and waited while Harry followed. Once they had most of the little copse between them and the campground, she found a bush that hid them from view, and sat down crosslegged. She looked up at Harry with a smile that she hoped wasn't scary.

Harry sat down facing her, looking expectant and nervous. She had hoped to have come up with something suitably epic to say to him, but nothing she had thought of seemed appropriate when she was mostly worried about not being terrifying.

"Well, I said I'd check up on you, didn't I?"

"How did you get here?"

"Magic." There, that was actually pretty good, right?

"Did your parents follow us?"

"My parents are at work. They don't know I'm here."

"Then, how . . .?"

"Magic." She allowed herself an enigmatic smile.

Harry didn't say anything for a long time. Tonks decided to forge ahead.

"So, what did your relatives say to you after I left?"

"I got sent to my room, and Uncle Vernon went to pick up Dudley, and I guess to a camping store to get that tent. Then we packed up really quickly and drove all night to get here. They didn't really say anything at all to me, just whispered to each other."

"I guess I should have expected that. Um, I don't actually have any idea where to start. I guess I should start by coming clean myself—I'm actually a few years older than I look, but I thought if I looked this way I'd be less scary." Harry looked confused. "It seemed like a good idea at the time! Now I wish I hadn't done that, because I don't want you to start out feeling lied to."

"That's okay." said Harry. Tonks thought she probably looked more nervous than he did at this point, but decided that was probably a good thing.

"Also, you should call me Tonks. That's my last name—everybody calls me that. Dora is short for something embarrassing that my mum likes but I hate. Uh, I think everything else I've said to you is true, though."

"Were you joking, about how you found me?"

"No."

Silence.

"How do you know who I am?"

"That's a long story. The short answer is that you're famous, so everyone knows who you are, but for various reasons nobody figured out where you lived until now. Ugh, I guess I better start this way—I'm sorry. Your relatives told you that your parents died in a car crash, right?"

"Yeah."

Tonks took a deep breath and let it out. "They were killed by a man who had come to kill you. They died protecting you. That's when you got that scar. Everyone will know you by that scar, by the way. So, the man who put you with your aunt and uncle is named Albus Dumbledore, and I think he was trying to protect you from having to grow up as a celebrity. He's a very good man, but he makes mistakes from time to time, and one of those was not checking up on you to see how you were doing."

Harry apparently had no idea what to think of that. "Did you use magic to disguise yourself?"

"Yeah. Um, unless you want me to, I don't really need to look twelve. It might be kind of startling if the first magic you see is me changing back to my normal body, though."

"Is there something scary about how you really look?"

"No! I mean, I guess that's a reasonable question given how I phrased that. All I meant is that I'm a little older than this. I was born in 1977, so physically I just turned seventeen, but this really is how I looked when I was twelve." Tonks wasn't entirely comfortable with that phrasing, but it was literally true, if misleading.

"Did you have pink hair when you were twelve?"

"Sometimes. I can change it to be whatever I want. That's how I looked younger, too. But most people can't do it that way -- it's a magic ability I was born with."

"It's okay if you look seventeen."

"You sure?"

Harry nodded. Tonks stood up, screwed up her face, and then stopped. "Actually I have to transfigure my clothes first—I wouldn't be able to fit in this. Sorry, hang on." She pulled her wand out of her pocket, and Harry watched intently as a series of flicks left her in a robe that was far too big for her, hanging off her shoulders. "Okay, that's always kind of ridiculous looking." She grinned, and Harry laughed. Then she screwed up her face again, and grew.

"Well, this is me. See, not a monster! Aah, don't look at me like that, now I feel guilty! Well, I guess it _is_ that impressive if you haven't seen it before. Sorry, I didn't really have this all planned out ahead of time."

"That's okay." said Harry, as she sat back down.

"Oh, damnit, Harry. I don't know where to start. This all seemed like a good plan but I don't actually know what I'm doing. If anybody else had done it they would have found some impressive way to do it and not bolloxed it up like this, but you were there for all these years alone with those awful people and I couldn't just _leave_ you once, I mean, once I knew where you were, but I rushed in all confident that I could fix things and Dumbledore would never know but now we're off in the middle of nowhere Scotland instead. Hiding behind a bush." Tonks was visibly on the verge of tears, but managed a laugh at her last joke. "Uh, Harry, we should probably get further away in case your relatives wake up. I'm not actually very good at being quiet, even if you are."

Harry looked across the field. "We could go for a walk, but they're going to be really mad if they realize I'm gone. Are you sure it's safe in this field with those cows over there?"

There were some beautiful highland cattle grazing a few hundred feet from them.

"I guess not. I don't actually know anything about cows. We're not going to walk. Do you mind traveling magically?"

"No!"

"Okay, well, it's not really a pleasant sensation, but it _is_ fast. What we're going to do is called apparation. It's basically going from one place to another directly, but it can feel like you are being squeezed through a small space, and it makes some people throw up the first time. I'm not legally allowed to do it, because I haven't taken the test and gotten my license, but I'm really good at it. So, don't tell anybody I did it, okay? It's how I got here to find you, and I'm still in one piece. Do you trust me?"

"I guess so. Where are we going?"

"How about some place up in the mountains that I stopped at while trying to find you?"

"Okay."

"I'm going to need to hold onto you tightly for this to work. Once you're a little more experienced, you can hold on to me, but I don't want to take any chances, okay?"

When Tonks touched Harry's arm, he winced away from her.

She went still as a statue, expressionless, looking at him.

He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and long pants, both slightly too big for him. "Harry, is there a place I can touch you without it hurting?" He took her hand and put it on his wrist. "Okay. Change of plans, though, about where we're going." She took a deep breath, and then Harry felt like he was being sucked though a hose.

They arrived on the Tonkses' front lawn with a "pop!", whereupon Harry threw up, and Tonks nearly collapsed as she sat down on the grass, tears streaming down her face.

 

* * *

 

Tonks composed herself after a minute. "Sorry Harry—lots of people don't like apparating. This is my place, come on in and I'll get you a glass of water."

Fortunately the Tonkses' house wasn't particularly different looking from a muggle one, so there wasn't much to distract Harry and require explaining.

"Okay, Harry. You were too sore to have me touch your arm earlier, and I brought you to my place without asking first because I'm worried about you and want to see if you have any injuries that needed treatment, and because I wanted to get you as far away from your relatives as I could, at least for now. I apologize for not explaining first."

"That's okay, I don't mind. I don't have any injuries, though, just some bruises."

"Bruises count as injuries as far as I'm concerned. Do you mind showing them to me? Could you take of your shirt so I can see how bad it is?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Uh, I guess so."

Harry only had his shirt halfway off before Tonks could see a patchwork of bruises on his back, some of them apparently recent, and in shapes that couldn't plausibly be attributed to accidents. She gestured for him to stop, tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat. "That's good enough." She had to be sure, though. "Those are from your relatives, right?" Harry nodded, slowly, clearly unsure what was happening.

Tonks would have just stood there, crying, if it weren't obviously making Harry worried. "Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was that bad. I would have taken you with me yesterday if I had known.

Sorry for crying so much—you don't need that right now and it's not helping." She paused and took a breath, rubbing the tears off her face with her hands to avoid startling Harry by conjuring a handkerchief. "Okay. After seeing that, I don't want you going back to live those people, ever, and I want to do some things very quickly to make sure that happens. I know you never had any choice in being put there—Albus Dumbledore just decided that was where you were going—and I'm trying to get you away from there regardless of what you think you want. But I can't let you go back after seeing those bruises. Do you understand?"

"Not really. I don't like living there. I've thought of running away, but I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Well, I'm going to try to get you someplace safer. I'm not sure where, yet, but I'm going to do my best. Okay?"

Harry nodded, still looking nervous.

"You're scared this won't work out, right?"

"Yeah."

"I guess that's fair. Let's see what we can do before Dumbledore realizes you're gone, shall we?" She attempted a smile, although it came out looking forced, then stared off in space, thinking. "Would that . . . huh. That might . . . no. DAMNIT. Sorry, Harry. Uh, the person I would most like to have take care of you is the closest living friend of your father's, but he's a werewolf and wouldn't be able to get legal custody." Harry seemed to have a permanent wide-eyed look at this point, which Tonks was having trouble reading. "He's a really nice man, it's just, you know, when the moon is full. Damn it, that would be so convenient. I'll try to make sure you get to meet him eventually, though, okay?" Harry nodded.

"I can't think of anyone who's an obvious candidate for just coming in and saving the day. We want someone who will stand up to Dumbledore _and_ the Ministry—the Ministry of Magic is the wizard government in Britain—and who has the clout to keep you. I think I could make sure you never go back to the Dursleys, but I need to make sure you wouldn't wind up someplace worse, and I can think of a few families that would very much like to get their hands on you and who you do _not_ want to live with. Huh. I have some ideas.

You know what? I'm going to go see if I can convince my mum to take the afternoon off. Do you mind if I leave you here for a few minutes? Okay, good. You're safe here—worst case scenario, you get bored. Here, come to the living room. Here's today's Daily Prophet—that's a wizarding newspaper—by the time I get back I expect you to have lots of questions no one will have time to answer. Um. I'd feel better if you just sat on the couch and didn't go anywhere. Can you do that? Okay, and remember not to tell anyone how I found you or got you here, if you can manage it. It was really complicated and I could get in trouble. I think that's it. Oh, I'm going through the floo this time—that's the fireplace. Wizards use it to travel."

Harry watched as Tonks called out her mother's workplace and stepped into the flames. The room suddenly felt much quieter with Tonks gone. Harry's stomach was in a knot, and as interesting as the paper would have seemed just an hour ago, he was too distracted to read it.

It seemed like Tonks had been gone for a long time when Harry realised he was feeling queasy. He was terrified of upsetting Tonks, lest she decide to send him back to the Dursleys, but he didn't think she'd want him throwing up on the rug, either. Eventually his stomach made the decision for him—he quickly got up and went down the hall, and found the bathroom door open. And so it was that when Tonks returned through the floo with her mother, she nearly panicked to find the couch empty.

"Hang on mum, he was here, he can't have gone far..."

"I'm in here!" he yelled, not wanting to get Tonks in trouble, but had to turn back to the toilet and throw up again.

"Okay, Mum, please don't be mad at me, at least not yet. Mum, this is Harry Potter. Harry, this is my mum." Harry turned around and looked up at them. Andromeda gasped.

"She saw your scar, Harry, that's all. Mum, don't ask how I found him yet because it was really complicated, but the family he was with was abusing him and we can't let him go back." Andromeda was just staring at him. "Mum, _please_ help—he's covered in bruises," Tonks said, sounding genuinely panicked.

"I want to get him to a healer but I want someone to photograph those bruises so we can stop Dumbledore from putting him back there but I don't want him to end up with somebody like Malfoy or whoever Fudge wants."

Andromeda sighed. "Harry, one of the things you should know about my daughter is that she is incapable of staying out of trouble."

After getting Harry cleaned up, they returned to the living room to discuss what to do next. Andromeda eventually suggested asking their cousin Augusta Longbottom to help. "I know you don't like her, Dora, but people at the ministry respect her, and she won't let anything happen to Harry."

"Mum! I don't dislike her. She's just scary. But I think Harry needs somebody scary on his side right now. And she'll talk his ear off making sure he learns about what happened to his parents."

"Right, then. I'll give her a call. Longbottom Manor!" she called, tossing a pinch of powder into the flames. After a minute the imposing face of Mrs. Longbottom appeared in the flames.

"Andy! It's Tonks, now, right? Yes, I remember. From your expression I deduce that this is not a social call to your long-neglected relations." She gave a stern look to Andromeda. "So either someone is dead, or you want to ask for a favor. Hm, no, clearly no one is dead. What is it, then?"

"Nymphadora has uncovered a sort of delicate situation which I was hoping you could help with. It would be better not to discuss it over the floo. Could..."

"Of course. I'll be there shortly." She vanished for a moment, giving Tonks the chance to interrupt.

"Harry, if you ever use that name... oh, I hate to threaten you right now. Just don't use it!"

Her mother didn't have time to protest before Mrs. Longbottom reappeared in her enormous hat. "I'm coming through."

She came through in a burst of soot, noticing Harry immediately. "Harry, is that you?"

Harry was too terrified to respond, but Andromeda didn't give him a chance anyway. "Harry, this is Augusta Longbottom. Augusta, this is Harry Potter. Evidently Nymphadora not only somehow discovered where he lived, but took it upon herself to remove him from his muggle relatives, who she feels were abusing him."

"Harry, is this true?" Harry just stared at her, uncomfortably.

Tonks stepped in. "Harry, she's asking if your relatives hit you. I'm sorry Harry, but would you show Mrs. Longbottom your bruises?"

"No, Harry, that won't be necessary. I'll take you to St. Mungo's right away."

Tonks held up her hand before Mrs. Longbottom could simply scoop Harry up and carry him off. "Harry, you should go with her. Everyone else is terrified of her too, so you'll be safe. She's on your side. Okay? I'll try to check up on you once this has all settled down." Harry stood up, and winced as Augusta did, in fact, pick him up and carry him off through the floo.

Once they were gone, the two Tonkses sat in silence for a while. "Thanks, mum."

"So, are there any other celebrities you have been stalking, that I ought to know about? . . . The fact that you are blushing is not reassuring." She sighed. "Oh, you're not in trouble, at least not with _me_. Just keep me out of it next time. Don't give me that look. I'm heading back to work. I love you!" She kissed her daughter on the forehead, and went off through the floo.

 

* * *

 

"Stalking celebrities. Hrmph." muttered Tonks as she sat on her bed. Aside from getting the ring to safety, her main attempt to change the timeline so far had gone wildly off the rails. Each individual step had seemed reasonable at the time, of course, and she couldn't just leave Harry where he was. But no one had told her how bad things had been for Harry living with the Dursleys. Maybe they had behaved better once he was getting visitors regularly? But her threat had just seemed to make things worse. She obviously knew a lot more about hunting down Death Eaters than about child welfare.

She'd have to rethink her plan to help Sirius before doing anything more about it, and wait a while before writing any of the letters she was contemplating. Visiting the library was looking like a better and better idea, however much it resembled homework.


	8. Interlude, Albus Dumbledore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Dumbledore's thinking. Short.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 8: Interlude, Albus Dumbledore

 

Thursday, July 26, 1990.

 

Albus Dumbledore absentmindedly drummed his fingers on his desk, pondering the letter he had received the day before. It was an odd time for a supporter of Voldemort's to decide to defect, and they hadn't given any satisfying clues as to their motivations. The only event that could have precipitated it was that terrible mess with Harry, and that worried him. If someone were plotting against Harry, he would hope the note writer would have said so.

The second half of the letter—a list of suspected Death Eaters—had contained no surprises, and could have come from any number of people unconnected to Voldemort's inner circle. The details about the horcruxes, however, could only have come from an insider—upon learning that Regulus had stolen the locket, it was easy enough for Dumbledore to get into the Black place and look for it. The ancient-looking house elf had been only too happy to get rid of it, and it was now sitting locked in a desk drawer. For all the note-writer's warnings about curses, it seemed innocuous enough so far—he was actually a little insulted by the implication he would be reckless with dark artifacts. Not that he could get the blasted thing to open or anything. Ah, well.

 _Seven_ horcuxes was a simply mind-blowing number. No wonder Voldemort had become so inhuman! He mentally went over the rest of the list again: Lucius had the diary and would probably try to pass it off to a student eventually. Well, keeping an eye open for any student with a diary was easy enough; he was good at doing things like that covertly. The note writer seemed confident Albus could somehow get the cup out of the Lestranges vault, but he honestly had no idea how to go about that yet. The writer also seemed confident about their ability to retrieve the diadem and again intimated that it was for his own good to not do it personally—foolishness. The snake would be a pain to find and destroy, but knowing about it was still an enormous secret weapon for him. Assuming it was all true. As to the seventh, the writer had no idea, but Albus had an awful suspicion about that one which he hoped would turn out to be unfounded. All in all, though, just getting the locket was excellent progress, given that only the day before he had been unaware of the horcruxes.

It did, however, confirm his suspicion that Voldemort was still around. Possibly a weakened spirit, but still dangerous, and quite capable of regaining a body via any number of methods. It made him all the more worried about Harry.

He had been stunned to watch Augusta Longbottom gather political support in her efforts to be named Harry's guardian. In the face of the incontrovertible evidence of Harry's abuse at the hands of the Dursleys, nothing Albus could say about blood wards seemed to influence anyone. He felt awful for not checking up on Harry, of course, but he could easily enough have compelled the Dursleys to behave themselves. Things had gotten out of hand too quickly for him to fix anything himself, and now no one seemed very happy with him.

Ultimately, he had to admit that the Longbottoms were a logical choice once the Dursleys were out of the picture. Yes, maybe having Harry make friends with Neville now would be fitting.

And on the bright side, a few things had gone right—no one had leaked the photos of the bruises to the Prophet, although he was sure Augusta would do that in a heartbeat before letting Harry go back to his family. She had also allowed him to inspect and augment the wards around Longbottom Manor. That is, after several howlers and an hour of screaming at him in his office, which he endured for Harry's sake.

Most reassuring, though, was her willingness to consult Albus about invitees to Harry and Neville's joint birthday party on the upcoming Saturday. He had made several suggestions, and promised to round up some Order members to discreetly provide security. Albus was impressed with Augusta's ability to hold that discussion with him while making clear that he was not himself invited.

He watched the ward monitors on 4 Privet continue to spin their warnings. It would only be a few more weeks before the wards fell completely—apparently Harry had quickly stopped thinking of it as "home". He was still not sure how Augusta had gotten ahold of Harry—whenever he asked anyone about that they just yelled at him about wanting to cover things up. Well, the whole world now knew Harry Potter was living at Longbottom Manor, and he would have to work from there.

He supposed he should go put up new wards for the Dursleys, to keep the whole wizarding world from coming down on them once their location was known. Yes, better do that tonight—no need to tell the Dursleys anything about it. They had surprised him when he had come around to explain the situation, actually seeming eager to have Harry live elsewhere. Apparently Harry had disappeared while they were on a camping trip and they had not gone looking for him. "The little freak always seemed to find his way back before whenever we thought we'd lost him." Dumbledore hadn't bothered getting angry at them, or even looking into their memories to verify anything—he just wished them good day and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note:
> 
> I hope to minimize my use of author's notes and other extraneous material (UPDATE when reposting on Archive of Our Own: yeah, right, that worked), but this is the simplest chapter for a while, so hopefully this won't be too aesthetically disruptive.
> 
> I guess I should be using the "alternate universe" tag from here on out. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and I have some really hard-to-categorize stuff coming up, so I'd appreciate a heads-up if anyone thinks my warnings or content ratings are off. And genre labels? Those are thoroughly confusing, and I'm almost picking things randomly.
> 
> I hadn't planned for Tonks to rescue Harry at the outset like this; she just went ahead and did it anyway. I think what authors mean when they say their characters surprise them is that in order to write them—that is, when you are actually putting words down about them—you have to get into their heads a quite a bit, and you take aspects of their personality into account that you might not have when you were outlining your plot.
> 
> In any case, Tonks is just too fundamentally good to leave Harry with the Dursleys once she has a complete picture of things, and me-the-author in my strategic planning just wasn't as compassionate as she was. As a result of this I am keeping a fairly large buffer of material that is already written—at the moment I think I have more written than posted—so that I can adjust things if anything else goes off the rails. And I'm also doing things in chronological order, too, with the exception of character studies of other main characters which are set in the original timeline (these are almost entirely written, although we won't see some of them for a very long time).
> 
> Finally, a bit of a caution when interpreting the plot: This is not Methods of Rationality, where "no one is left holding the idiot ball". Characters can do stupid or irrational things, just like in real life, and the Harry Potter universe already has plenty of people "holding the crazy ball". Because so much of the story I'm telling here involves scheming and manipulation rather than action sequences, I have to write a lot of dialogue and a lot of text representing the thoughts of characters. They are not necessarily reliable narrators. Mostly, though, people here are not stupid, nor do I intend to engage in what other fanfic authors call "bashing". So my Dumbledore is supposed to be nuanced -- competent and good and manipulative and crazy all at the same time.
> 
> Note, added 10/14/2014: It has been pointed out to me that none of my characters are particularly morally consistent -- pretty much everyone sometimes chooses self-interest over principle. This should not be taken to mean I don't personally believe morally-consistent people exist, either in the real world or in the Harry Potter universe. They are off running breeding programs for diricawls and thylacines, or fighting ebola.


	9. Miscellaneous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows Harry's birthday; a few paragraphs about several different characters. Short.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 9: Miscellaneous

 

Saturday, July 28, 1990, 10 PM

 

* * *

 

Augusta Longbottom

 

It had been stunning to watch Neville actually make friends with other children, and even more so to see him acting outgoing and polite with their parents. Algie had remarked it was the social equivalent of throwing him out the window to see if his accidental magic would activate, and pointedly told her that the boy needed more challenges. Nymphadora had agreed, suggesting she get the boys a tutor, dropping hints that Remus would be a good candidate. The girl wasn't very subtle. Augusta didn't really like the idea of her cousin getting involved with a werewolf, but he was smart, trustworthy, unemployed, and had been friends with the boys' parents. She'd think about it.

She wasn't sure about Neville, but the past month had certainly been a challenge for _her_. She felt twenty years younger from the exhilaration of taking on both Dumbledore and the Ministry while trying to make up for Harry's childhood so far. Nothing nearly that exciting had happened to her since she had dueled some Death Eaters during the last wizarding war.

 

* * *

 

Susan Bones

 

The party had been weird. Susan wasn't really used to talking to boys, and despite the adults' best intentions had only become a little less awkward by the end. She knew it eventually wouldn't matter, and that there was a good chance she would be interested in one of those boys romantically someday, but today was awkward. It didn't help that she was never sure whether she got invited to events like that as an excuse for someone to invite her Aunt Amelia, or whether they genuinely wanted Susan around for her own sake. Hannah always came up with a long list of reasons why she shouldn't worry about it, but none of them were very comforting when it was late at night and she was staring at the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

Xenophilius Lovegood

 

The sound of crickets came in with the night air as Xenophilius sat drinking tea in his kitchen. He was wondering whether it was ethical to write columns about someone once you and your daughter have gone to their birthday party.

He had guessed at first that Luna had been invited so that he would get access to Harry, and he did, in fact, get to talk to Harry for several minutes, but no one had said anything about an interview, and he felt awkward about bringing it up. It had briefly crossed his mind that somebody just wanted to annoy the Daily Prophet. After a while, though, he concluded he really was there primarily as "Luna's father", which was puzzling. He wasn't really sure _why_ Luna had been invited, since previously her only friend had been Ginny Weasley, but Luna had certainly seemed to enjoy herself. Listening to her talk after the party about the Longbottoms' greenhouse had been the happiest he had seen her since his wife died in the spring.

 

* * *

 

Ginny Weasley

 

"Gah?" All you could say was "Gah?" The boy you have had a crush on for approximately forever _invites you to his birthday party_ when you didn't think he knew you existed, and every time you tried to talk to him all that came out was "gah!". Also squeaks, Ron had pointed out afterwards. She had squeaked and blushed stood there speechless, and Harry just stood there wondering what was wrong with her. Ron had, for once in his life, come to her rescue—"Oh, Ginny's just shy, don't worry"—he said, and then proceeded to steal Harry's attention and talk about quidditch at every opportunity.

Ginny and her brother had been sent to bed shortly after getting home, but she was sure breakfast was going to be even more embarrassing once Ron told Fred and George about her.

On the plus side, Harry had turned out to be _really_ cute.

 

* * *

 

Nymphadora Tonks

 

Tonks would have been exhausted if she weren't absolutely wired from making sure the day went off as she had planned. And "planned" was the right word—she had never done so much subtle manipulating of people in her in her life, making sure various people met each other. Actually it might have been as much "subtle" anything as she had ever done. But it had all pretty much worked, to her astonishment. Of course, orchestrating a 10-year-old birthday party was hardly auror-level work.

And Remus had come! And talked to her for at least fifteen minutes. It was mostly about Harry, but it was a start. She had no idea what he thought of her, which unfortunately was her normal experience when dealing with Remus. Well, it was progress, at least.


	10. Oren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adding another main character, at long last.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 10: Oren

 

Monday, August 18, 2015.

 

Along Diagon Alley, tucked in between the storefronts of an herbalist and a greengrocer, was a door labeled "Oren E. C. Wayland, Custom Designs". No advertisements for it would be found in the Daily Prophet or the Quibbler; clients who came through that door were all there via word of mouth. After ascending a narrow flight of stairs they would find themselves in a front office, strikingly furnished with the proprietor's own fabrications, and dominated by a large desk and the always-open door to the workshop behind it. On the wall, if they were paying attention, they might be surprised to find a diploma from a muggle art and design school. Some of them would be reassured by its presence, others put off by it, but in either case Mr. Wayland was quite certain it was a qualification unique among British wizards.

When the door opened on this particular afternoon, Oren—who was always being called Mr. Wayland, and hated it, because it felt like being back in school—was in the back of his workshop attempting to get runic magic to work with an upholstered sofa. He was alerted to his visitor by the vibration of his pocketwatch—an idea he had gotten from muggle cellular telephones after discovering that he couldn't hear door chimes over the din of some of his machinery.

The witch who arrived in his office appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She had long blond hair and was holding her pointed hat in her hands while nervously fidgeting with it.

"Mr. Wayland?"

"Oren, please. What can I do for you?"

"You made some chairs for my friend Amanda recently . . ."

"Yes, the William Morris reproductions. It was actually a whole dining room set—table and chairs. I was quite pleased with how they all turned out. Did you see them?"

"Oh, yes, they're very nice. Amanda says you charmed the chairs to make her children eat their vegetables."

"Ah, well, yes, that was one of the features she had me add. I usually use runic magic, by the way—it has some advantages over regular charms, at least for most of the furniture orders I get. And it doesn't _make_ them eat their vegetables, it just mildly encourages them to. Much less noticeable that way, but ultimately more effective."

"Of course. So. I was wondering . . . if you could do that sort of thing to existing furniture?"

"Well, maybe! What did you have in mind?"

"This is kind of embarrassing."

"I promise to be entirely discreet. If it helps, I've been adding privacy enchantments to this office for years."

"It's not _that_ big a deal, but thanks. I'd just rather my husband didn't find out." She was reassured that Oren's expression did not change in the slightest at this. "Can you work with a bed?"

"I'd have to see the bed, of course, and it depends on what you want me to do with it, but probably." He smiled reassuringly.

"My husband... I love my husband, and I guess he loves me -- don't worry, I'm not looking for a love spell. But he hasn't been paying me a lot of attention lately, and I'd like to have children some day."

"Just to be clear, fertility itself is usually best handled via potions, and you might want to go see a healer about it before spending money on them. You don't want to rely on enchanted artifacts or furniture for something delicate like that."

She was blushing now, but grateful for his professionalism. "Oh, no, I don't think fertility is the problem. It's sort of, you know, before you get to the point of worrying about fertility, you have to, you know . . ."

"You need to actually have sex first?" He smiled, showing amusement without mockery. "So, if I understand correctly, you are looking for a bed that makes its occupants more interested in sex?"

"Yes! That sounds right. My husband—he says he doesn't see what the problem is, and won't talk to me about potions, and I don't want to go down Knockturn Alley because who knows what I'd be buying there."

"Of course. Could you have a seat for a minute or two while I think about this? This ought to be possible, but I want to work some things out on paper before promising something I can't deliver."

"Sure." She sat down in a green velvet armchair, and watched as Oren scribbled in a notebook, a look of intense concentration on his face.

About two minutes later, he stopped. "Yes, that should work." He looked up at her. "The next step would be to let me take a look at the bed, just to be sure I can work with it, and so that I can give you an estimate. I can probably do the work this afternoon, if you like—will your husband be out?"

She blushed again. "Yes, at least until 5:30. Can we use your floo?"

"Certainly. Let me get my tools and I'll be right with you."

 

* * *

 

Two minutes later she was watching Oren taking a cursory look under her bed, which was a tall four-poster with about two feet of space underneath. "Oh, this should be no problem. Do you want any sort of adjustable controls or timing mechanisms, or anything?"

"No, simple is good."

"Okay, then. I'll have to make some inscriptions on the bed, but I'll put them on the underside where no one will find them unless they go looking. My rate for this sort of thing is 20 galleons an hour. There are no materials, and I think it will take about 45 minutes total. Is that acceptable?"

"Oh, yes, that's fine. It's certainly cheaper than having you make a new bed from scratch! And you can see from the dust that no one has gone down there in a long time. You can move the boxes if you need to."

"Alright then, I'll get started! You can hang around if you want—you won't distract me. Hm." He said, getting down on his hands and knees, and taking some thing out of his satchel. "You know, you're the first person who has ever asked me to do something like this. Anything involving sex, that is. I'm sure, like you said, you can go down Knockturn Alley and get some scary stuff, but it probably all requires blood sacrifices to work or drives you insane or something. Wizards are pretty conservative folks. Do you mind if I get rid of this dust?" She shook her head.

"Scourgify! I always enjoy doing that. Oh, there was carpet under this dust!" He was now halfway under the bed, pushing boxes around. "What's this?"

There was a bright flash of light.

 

* * *

 

Friday, August 24, 1990.

 

Oren was standing in his family's attic, reading a note that had fallen out of a green and silver snitch. He was sure the note was for real, because his hair, clothes, and the contents of his pockets were different. The attic looked a little different, too.

"Huh." He said to himself, pocketing the snitch and its contents. At least his wand was in his pocket; that was convenient. Even if he were underage, the trace would never find him here—a quick time spell revealed the date. It was a week before he started his first year at Hogwarts. He remembered coming up here in his original timeline, too, rummaging around for things he might want to take with him to school. That seemed like a pretty reasonable thing to do this time around, too, so he started back in where his past self left off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give a few forward-looking notes before we get into a string of chapters I don't want to interrupt the flow of, and this seems like the best place to do it. I have about 12k words of buffer between what I'm posting and the characters surprising me, which for me is the middle of ch. 16. I'm having fun and getting a lot of words out, so I expect you will get to see them reasonably soon.
> 
> Anyway, Chapters 11-13 are light and, I humbly think, really funny in places, but I think I'm calling the overall story pg-13 for now. Not that most of you care. 14-16, though, are probably the most unsettling things I have ever written, although they're tame by fanfiction standards, and nothing compared to what goes on over in the band-fandom world. The reason I'm bringing this up is that they don't fit neatly into warnings and ratings guidelines, so I'll be almost flipping a coin on those. Again, not that most of you will care, but I feel like I've done my duty here and warned you as best as I'm able.


	11. At Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The school year begins. Very short.

The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 11: At Hogwarts

 

Sunday, September 2, 1990.

 

Oren had set an alarm for just before dawn. He got dressed as quickly as he could, and grabbed a bag which he had packed the night before. His father had paid for him to have a private room, so he wasn't worried about waking anyone up; he wondered how the other houses managed with open dormitories, but figured that after so many centuries it must work okay for them. He was relieved to find the Slytherin common room empty—nobody had a reason to get up on the Sunday before classes started. He was lucky school started on a weekend this year.

By the time he got out of the dungeons it was past curfew hours, and he moved confidently through the empty halls. No sense breaking the rules if you don't have to.

The existence of the Room of Requirement had become common knowledge after Umbridge's tenure, and the story of Voldemort's horcruxes had gotten out among his surviving supporters. Oren's father had managed to stay out of the war, but within the family he was open which side he favored, and in fact still complained to Oren about it whenever he came to visit.

Oren had personally been horrified at the way Dumbledore's supporters had handled the horcuxes. Basilisk's venom and fiendfyre were a terrible fate for priceless artifacts of the founders. He didn't even want to think about the idea of destroying a fragment of a soul, even Voldemort's.

Oren knew he couldn't do much about most of the artifacts, but he hoped he could at least save the diadem from getting caught up in future battles. And if the note was to be believed, there might be other time travelers about. They had obviously been hard at work already this summer, partially discrediting Dumbledore and getting poor Harry Potter away from those awful muggles. He had to calm himself down every time he thought of that—the idea of leaving the boy in an abusive environment for nine years, isolated from his own society and any potential friends—not even Voldemort was evil enough to commit atrocities on _that_ scale.

In any case, he had to assume the other time travelers, however sensible they had been so far, might not precisely share his priorities. So he had spent much of the last week preparing to make this rescue mission a nice, clean, and above all swift operation, which it in fact turned out to be.

Twelve minutes to walk to the room, arriving seven after sunrise and the end of curfew. Thirty seconds to get the door open, carefully envisioning the piles of lost objects from his classmates' descriptions. He had several detection devices ready as he walked in the door, and the diadem probably wished to be found anyway. Forty-five seconds to locate it, all spent simply walking there. Another thirty to get it safely into his great-grandfather's luggage, which he had put some heavy protective enchantments on. A leisurely fifteen minutes to walk back to his room—utterly unobserved—and shut the door. The luggage went into an open drawer of his trunk and was safely locked in. Total time to save an irreplaceable piece of wizarding Britain's cultural heritage from wanton destruction: about half an hour.

He might have seemed excited or nervous at breakfast, but then, so was every other first year.


	12. The Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with Scabbers. This is, I think, the part where the set-up is over and the body of the story begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply. I probably unwittingly take a lot of stuff from other fanfiction, too; I hope this will be interpreted charitably, as tributes to the awesomeness of my sources, but I'll stick in a footnote if anyone asks. I'll use the short disclaimer again most of the time, though.

Chapter 12: The Rat

 

Wednesday, September 19, 1990

 

Albus sat at his desk, partially annoyed, partially intrigued.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

 

I regret to inform you that I was unable to obtain the diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw. My sources had informed me that it had been left by Tom in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts. My agents were unfortunately unable to find it; we can only hope that it was taken by someone with good intentions. I had hoped to avoid exposing the leader of the light to a dangerous dark artifact, but in retrospect it might have been better to have dealt with this immediately. Rest assured, if I obtain further information about Voldemort's plans I will share them with you if I am able.

I do, however, have something to offer you which ought to brighten your day. You currently have a student in Gryffindor House, Percy Weasley, who has brought to school a pet rat, "Scabbers". Scabbers has some magical properties which I will let you discover for yourself, although I warn you to treat it with all the caution you would give to a dangerous dark artifact and to conduct your investigations in a secure environment. I seem to remember the Headmaster's suite having a room suitable for this purpose. Please do not betray my confidence by getting yourself hurt or letting the rat escape.

My advice is to go in person to the Gryffindor dorm and retrieve the rat without delay, first making absolutely certain that it is asleep or unconscious and will remain that way for as long as necessary to complete your investigations. I strongly suggest asking Professor McGonagall to assist you at every step, and to avoid informing Professor Snape of your activities until you are quite sure your investigations are complete. Bear in mind also that the Ministry, once told of something, cannot be un-told, and an artifact, once out of your possession, might not return.

I refuse to apologize for the cryptic nature of this letter, because you should be able to handle this without incident and giving further clues might spoil your enjoyment.

 

best wishes,

anon.

\----------------------------------

 

The loss of the diadem was a serious blow; obtaining the other horcruxes would be much more difficult, and the suggestion that multiple forces were at work was unsettling. "Ah, well, Fawkes, I can't be too upset at them for trying to protect me, can I?"

Fawkes trilled and cocked his head.

"I know, I know—I myself have done no less. Well, I suppose we should all have learned a lesson here about acting on information promptly. If I don't go get that rat, I have no doubt it will grow to a hundred times its size and start eating students before the day is out. Let's see, Professor McGonagall is teaching a class right now."

Dumbledore's hesitation was met with another trill.

"Yes, yes, I suppose you're right."

 

* * *

 

Tonks had to suppress a smirk when the headmaster interrupted her transfiguration class. Timing that owl had seemed like overkill, but it was totally worth it.

"Minerva?"

"Yes Albus?" she replied, raising an eyebrow.

"I would seem to require your assistance with something, and it ought to be dealt with rather urgently. I'm sure your students will soon get over their grief at having class cancelled." He smiled at the class. Clever, thought Tonks—now McGonagall can't say no. Hopefully he'll stay clever for the next few hours. Tonks crossed her fingers.

"Well," said Minerva, sighing, "I suppose I don't have any choice in the matter, do I? Nevertheless, your papers which are due on Friday remain due on Friday. As always, please come see me if you are having difficulties. Class dismissed." She waved her wand over her notes, sending them into a neat stack, the neat stack into a folder, and the folder into a drawer which opened and closed to receive them. "Well then, Albus, what on earth have you got for me today?"

"Ah! Now, that's the adventure. I don't know! We're off to the Gryffindor boys dorm, where I have been sent by an anonymous but credible note-writer, who, I hope, is not engaged in an elaborate prank. I was strongly advised to bring you along, but not told why!"

Minerva sighed. "Credible?"

"Well, so far, at least!"

Dumbledore waved at the Fat Lady as she swung open to admit them, and then waved cheerfully to the students in the common room as he strode up the stairs into the boys dorm. "Minerva, I need you to find me Percy Weasley's things . . . although I suspect that wasn't what the note writer thought you were supposed to help me with.

Ah, the fourth years are in here, thank you. Hm. Ah, yes, hm. Hm, hm, not that, ah! Here we go. Somnium!" He hovered a cage away from the window, holding a sleeping rat. "Is this bunk Percy's, and do you see any other cages in here?"

"Yes. Yes, it is, and I think it's the only cage. Albus, what is this about? Surely not that rat?"

"It is, in fact, about the rat! We have been instructed in no uncertain terms to treat it as the darkest of dark artifacts!" Dumbledore sounded as excited as Minerva had seen him in, well, weeks at least. She had to admit he got excited pretty easily.

"The rat itself? Do we need to check Percy's things, or Percy himself?"

"Hm. The note didn't say to. I think we should get the rat, which I am told is named 'Scabbers', to a secure location. We'll let the students in the common room tell Percy to come to my office in a few hours. Hopefully we will have made some progress by then." He tapped the cage, disillusioning cage and rat. "There we go. No sense letting on what we are up to, in case it matters somehow."

"Albus, if we really are to treat, er, Scabbers, here, as a dark artifact, we should seal off this dormitory until we can get back here. Why don't you take the rat down to the common room and I'll close the room off."

As she cast the charms to keep anything from getting in or out of the room, she heard Albus talking downstairs. "May I have your attention? While most likely nothing is wrong, the fourth year boys dormitory will be _off limits_ until further notice. It's just a precaution. Finally, if any of you sees Percy Weasley, please send him to my office in, oh, an hour or so. The password is 'licorice jelly beetle'." Then, directed at Fred and George, who had been present for the whole thing, "no, he's not in trouble, at least not yet. Sorry to disappoint you." The twins gave each other a puzzled look. "Ah, Minerva, all set? Good. We're off then!"

They could hear the murmurs of speculation start up behind them before the portrait had finished swinging closed.

 

* * *

 

Fawkes had actually made a hissing sound when they returned to the Headmaster's office, staring right at the disillusioned animal. "Hm. Well, I suppose there's no need for that anymore," said Dumbledore, dropping the disillusionment. Then, looking at Fawkes "Well, the note _did_ say to treat it like a dark artifact. Fawkes would seem to agree. I've never seen him be wrong about something like that. Well, then, let's get it into the back room."

In a few minutes, they were standing in a round, domed chamber about fifteen feet in diameter, which had in fact been built for exactly this sort of thing. The doors and the windows had been magically sealed, and the rat—now snoring—had been levitated out of its cage and onto the center of a marble workbench Dumbledore had conjured.

Minerva had her wand trained on it, but made no move to do anything else. "This is your show, Albus. Go ahead."

After about ten minutes of watching him stroke his beard, mutter to himself, and try a few diagnostic spells that weren't normally designed for living things, Minerva couldn't stand it any longer. "May I take a turn?"

"Why, of course!" He beamed, and stood back, keeping his wand trained on the rat. Minerva looked him in the eye, gave a slight smile, and paused for dramatic effect.

"I have a hunch as to why your informant asked for the transfiguration professor. Stand back." She stepped back herself, letting herself take a deep breath and exhale.

Albus watched as the table was extended to seven feet, a flash of blue-white light came from Minerva's wand, and the rat grew and transformed. Before his eyes could recover, the body on the table had been pinned in place with iron cuffs.

Even after a decade as a rat—which had apparently not treated the man well—Albus recognized him almost immediately. "Peter Pettigrew."

"Yes, Albus. I believe it's your turn again. Now what?"

"Well, we wake him up, of course! Can he escape from that?"

She looked insulted. "I know what I'm doing. He'll be quite incapable of transforming out of that. Whether he's any good with wandless magic is another question entirely."

"Naturally. Do you wish to be present for this?"

She scowled. "I get the feeling we're not going to like what we learn. So, no, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to go inspect my students' dormitory."

"Very well. Take Filius with you when you do—explain the situation to him. I don't want to take any chances, and no offense, but you have just reminded me of how easily one person can miss the obvious." Minerva snorted at this, but kept her mouth shut. "Before you go, could you stand watch here while I make a few floo calls?"

"I suppose."

She had been left locked in the chamber with Pettigrew for about three minutes, when she heard a familiar muttering approaching the door, and Albus re-entered followed by a displeased-looking Alastor Moody. "Really, Albus, this better be good . . . WHAT!!!" While his magic eye was scanning the body on the table, Dumbledore waved her on. "I think we can take it from here. Let me know if you find anything, and I still want to speak to Percy. Come to think of it, send me all the Weasleys you can find, just to be sure." Oh, _that_ was going to go well, she thought.

Minerva got out of there as quickly as possible. She had been very fond of James and Lily, and in all likelihood Peter was better off without her interrogating him. Mad-Eye wouldn't be nearly as terrifying.

 

* * *

 

Fred and George Weasley were perplexed, and it was driving them up the wall. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were _both_ in the dorm, presumably going through Percy's things, after telling them the Headmaster wanted to see _all_ of the Weasley brothers in his office later.

"It occurs to me that our dear brother might, in fact, not have done anything wrong."

"What, Charlie? Why, just yesterday, I saw him . . ."

"But, alas, not Percy. McGonagall and Flitwick, though . . ."

". . . don't look so sure."

"And seem to be checking for something."

"Which means . . ."

". . . we're probably next, and they are going to want to go through _everything_."

"Right then."

"Panic!"

 

They ran, then, at top speed, pausing only to tiptoe past the room under investigation, to gather up whatever they could think of that might be contraband. They opened their trunks and started throwing things into a duffel bag.

Periodically they would pause upon finding some questionable object.

"What is this, anyway?"

"It looks like a bag of sugar quills which have been sat on."

"Are sugar quills on Filch's list?"

"Haven't the foggiest—into the duffel."

"What about socks? We can have socks, right?"

"Did we do anything to them?"

"I don't remember."

"Into the duffel!"

 

After a surprisingly efficient five minutes, half of their possessions had been removed from their trunks, the duffel had been shrunk and tucked in George's pocket, and their remaining clothes had been neatly folded with a series of spells that would have shocked their mother, who thought they were genuinely bad at the household charms she had taught them, and not just faking it.

In short order they were back in the common room, and Fred was noisily regaling Charlie about Percy's theoretical misdemeanors. George, in the meantime, palmed off the shrunken duffel to an amused Angelina Johnson, who would no doubt later call in that favor for all it was worth.

After a few minutes of conversation, Charlie also ran off to his dormitory at top speed.

"You'd almost think he had something to hide."

"You would, wouldn't you."

"Do you suppose we should try to find out?"

"Oh, we'll offer to help, of course."

"Which is equivalent to snooping . . ."

". . . but sounds better!"

 

Several minutes later they were back in the common room, talking loudly while Charlie palmed off a small package to a seventh year girl, mere seconds before Flitwick and McGonagall started walking their way.

"Ah, Professor McGonagall!"

"We're simply dying to know . . ."

". . . what you found in our dear brother's things."

"We tried to come up with something . . ."

". . . suitably humorous to suggest . . ."

". . . but with Percy all our ideas . . ."

". . . kept involving Minister Fudge . . ."

". . . and we didn't like thinking about that . . ."

". . . so we stopped."

"You have our deepest apologies!"

 

"That's enough, you two. Now, I don't think my searching your trunks as well would accomplish anything, since frankly I think you are smart enough to hide anything that might get you into trouble. No, don't respond to that, I don't want to hear it."

"What she means," interrupted Professor Flitwick, "is that Percy's stuff was boring, we didn't find anything, and we don't want to go through that process a second time."

"Filius!"

"Well, unless of course you boys have anything you'd like us to take a look at?"

Fred and George gave each other a look that Minerva didn't like, and then turned to Charlie, who shrugged. "Nope." said Fred.

"Good. Now, Filius is going to escort you to the headmaster's office while I go pull your brother out of class."

"Well, then, . . ."

". . . this is exciting!"

 

Minerva turned around, stopping on her way out. "You know sometimes you two sound _exactly_ like Albus Dumbledore, right?" _That_ got a reaction. She went on her way with a satisfied, but well-hidden, smirk.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, the twins were standing outside of Filch's office.

The list of banned items consisted of 1127 entries, written down on about forty sheets of parchment, clipped together and hung from a nail on the caretaker's door.

 

"This is absolutely stunning!"

"Breathtaking!"

"It just goes on and on!"

"Exploding doorknob-cozies. Sink-clogging fluid. Turnip launchers? Fair enough."

"Inflatable screechers. Seeping mifflers. Clockwork snails. Kneazle-in-a-jar. Do you have any idea what these are?"

"Not a clue. Squid-whistles, trawling nets, depth charges, all magical boats not school-owned. Those were all together—sounds like a good story."

"Level three and a half omniscopes from Barker and Hewett, models 5a and 6. That's pretty specific. I wonder what made 5b and 4 okay."

"Oh, there are normal things on here every so often, too. Fanged frisbees, dungbombs, hiccough drops, sneezing potion, nose-biting teacups, ah! Sugar quills! I was right."

"Well, keep an eye out for socks, then. How are we ever going to beat nose-biting teacups? How does Zonko come up with this stuff, anyway?"

"I have no idea. And move on to other body parts? Oh, there's carnivorous hats on there already."

"Leprechauns. How is that an item?"

"All varieties of live poultry. Huh."

"Gila monsters. Okay, that one sounds reasonable."

"Poly . . . cyclic . . . lightning orbitals? That can't be right."

"Here we go! Paint-on-socks. Have we tried that?"

"No, only the underwear, but if the girls just keep hitting us when we ask for testers, I don't see why we should bother."

"Vanishing cream. I wonder if that means what he thinks it does?"

"It's next to the ever-flowing sinus frobbers, whatever those are, so maybe. Muggle 'magic wands'. I have no idea."

"French can-openers. Okay, I have to know." Then, yelling: "Mr. Filch, what _is_ a French can-opener, and why can't we have one?"

"Go away!"

"Oh well. Maybe there's something special about French cans."

"Spray paint. I wonder what that is?"

"Self-chewing gum. Ew, why?"

"Snow-summoning rods. Oh, I like that—I wonder if Zonko's has any . . ."

 

"Go away, you miscreants! It's not a list of required class supplies, they're banned items. Banned!"

 

"Ooh, this is interesting—any doll or other toy in the likeness of a Hogwarts student or staff member. I bet somebody made a plushie Snape with magically greasy hair!"

"Or a Dumbledore with style-able beard and seven sets of brightly-colored robes!"

"That last one might actually sell, remember that. Okay, now we're getting into the real dark artifacts, let's skim this bit."

 

After a very long while, and several exchanges with an increasingly irritated Filch, the Weasley twins threw up their hands. "I guess we just have to accept that it's not against the rules to have an unregistered rat animagus in the dorms."

"Percy really wasn't in trouble, then."

"Sadly the same is not true for those magazines Charlie has."

"Oh, yes, the blackmail material."

"You know, I quite like the idea of those snow-summoning thingies—do you suppose we could get them to work indoors? In the dungeons, perhaps?"


	13. Detention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starting in 1990 gives me the luxury of writing with Fred, George, and Charlie at school together. Also some characterization of Oren and the Slytherins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 13: Detention

 

Friday, September 21st, 1990. Evening.

 

Fred and George had lost ten points for Gryffindor each and were assigned by Filch to muck out the Owlery by hand. It was chilly and dimly lit. Charlie had followed along to laugh at them.

"Come on, tell! It's not like you're going to do it again."

"Well."

"We're not saying we did it, you see."

"In fact, we're rather miffed about it."

"You know why we got in trouble?"

 

"Because you got a bloody flock of geese to the hall outside Snape's office! But how?"

 

"No, no, that's not true."

"You see, we got in trouble because Snape _discovered_ a flock of geese outside his office."

 

"Surely you weren't expecting him to not notice—I mean, what's the point if he didn't, right?"

 

"It's just, my dear brother . . ."

". . . that Filch just assumed it was us . . ."

". . . without any proof!"

"He reasoned that since we, having carefully perused his list with a scrutiny heretofore unheard of . . ."

". . . were the only ones who knew that poultry were against the rules, . . ."

". . . clearly, clearly, we must be responsible for it somehow."

"It's completely unfair, of course."

 

"But how did you get them in? I _saw_ Filch chasing them out. There had to be at least twenty of them!"

 

"Thirty-two, we counted. Which, of course, . . ."

". . . is not to say we did it. But if we did, it would be a trade secret."

"We might have to do it again sometime, you see, and anyway in the meantime we'd hate to see anyone else do it wrong."

 

Charlie thought for a moment. "It's not easy moving big, aggressive animals around. I read that when the MacFustys have to move an injured Hebridean Black, they have a special apparatus, like a combination of slings and splints, to keep it from hurting itself further, and it takes eighteen wizards using hover charms to get it from place to place! I guess you could hover charm geese one at a time, or put them all in a crate, even."

 

Fred and George looked at each other, seemingly dumbstruck. "We have _got_ to try that."

"Oh, yes, Charlie, that's brilliant!"

"And hilarious!"

"Making a bird fly, who would think of that?"

"So much easier!"

"You know, I think, if we did it . . ."

". . . and we're not saying we did . . ."

". . . the main thing we learned is that geese bite."

Charlie laughed.

"But, Fred, I thought the main thing we learned was how fast Mrs. Norris could run?"

"Oh, right. That too."

"In case you are wondering, brother dear, the answer is _really, really, fast_."

"It was brilliant!"

They worked in silence for several minutes.

"Hm. Charlie, do you think these owls are eating only mice? The bones in these pellets don't look right."

"Huh. No, I don't think so," he said, after leaning in to take a look. "I wouldn't really, know, though. Small animals were never my thing."

The twins snorted. "George, do you have a sample jar with you?"

"I think so . . . ah, here." George pulled out a small glass container from the evidently deep pockets of his robes.

"Do you two have any idea what you're going to do with that?"

"Oh, no, not at all!"

"It's purely for our own edification!"

"How on earth could we possibly be thinking of pulling of a prank involving owl pellets!"

"Um, Fred, you don't actually have a plan, do you?"

"Well, no. I got carried away there."

"Darn."

 

"Well, some of us _aren't_ always finding new ways to get in trouble, and I have homework to do. Have fun!" And with that, Charlie was off.

 

* * *

 

"Well, if you don't like it, do something better." Oren was in the common room, trying to get two childhood friends of his to "stop being a bunch of whiners" about the Weasley's goose prank. Not that he'd call them that out loud, but he was tempted. Erwin Yost and Bernard Ebbit had known Oren since they were very young, and their parents had thrust them together often enough that "childhood friend" was a passable description of their relationship.

"Like what?" asked Erwin.

"That's my whole point—you don't have anything to compare it to, you're not pulling off stuff like that yourself, and you're just sitting there calling it 'dumb'. Besides, how would _you_ get a flock of geese into the dungeons? Even if it _was_ a dumb prank, and I guess I agree with you that it was," Oren smirked, "it was still an _impressive_ one. They were showing off."

"But it was a dumb showing off. Why'd they do it, anyway?" asked Bernard.

Oren shrugged. "I overheard one of the sixth-years saying they did it just because it was against the rules. Like, they actually went through Filch's list looking for ways to get in trouble, and there was some line about poultry in there. And I guess they wanted a victim, and Snape or anybody in Slytherin was all they could think of."

"So they weren't getting revenge for something by doing it outside Snape's office, or trying to send a message?"

"Who knows? It's like Gryffindors have some long-standing, permanent grievance against all Slytherins. And maybe geese are some bizarre Weasley in-joke?"

"Typical. Morons. Heh." joked Bernard.

"Not really, no." Oren was irritated again. "You don't know much of anything about the Weasleys other than red hair, amazing fertility, and mutual dislike."

"They're poor, too." added Erwin.

"Middle-class, really, by wizarding standards. They just have seven kids and the parents have no ambition. The family has been around for a long time. Purebloods. Anyway, they might be god-awful annoying, but they're all geniuses. It's true. Even my father admits it, and you know how he is."

"What? No way."

"Well, go ahead and outprank them then."

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. What else are you going to do? They'll keep pulling stuff like this day in, day out, for the next six years, regardless of how many detentions they get. You can sit here and take it—"

"—I'm not gonna just sit here and take it!"

"Well, that's great, but you can go out there and show them up, or you can do something half-assed that makes you feel better and leaves the rest of the school thinking you're morons. Go ask the older students—see what they say."

"Hmph." Bernard grunted. Erwin just sat there, presumably lost in thought. Oren had never been sure how smart these two were. A lot of Pureblood wizards never really had to use much intelligence in order to succeed in life, so when trying to account for their behavior, he had to assume there was a decent amount of 'won't' and 'don't' amongst the 'can't'.

Oren had picked up the 'won't, don't, or can't' idea from a muggle biology student when he was at the design school; the student had been trying to explain that the definition of a species didn't care whether two organisms won't, don't, or can't interbreed—just by looking at it you don't know which it is. Oren wasn't really clear on that, but the phrase was handy—there were so many things wizards would not or for whatever reason did not do, that it was easy to lose track of what they could in fact do.

 

* * *

 

Lately, Oren was faced with a number of things he really wanted to do, but which he had no idea how to accomplish. Or rather, no sane ideas. If things followed the original timeline, next year Voldemort would possess Quirrel, actually kill unicorns just to get some of their blood, and it would all lead to the death of a six-hundred-year-old alchemist and his wife. It had been one heartbreaking death after another. Senseless. Why had Dumbledore let it all happen? Why had Flamel gone along with it? Was he pressured? Hogwarts had been manifestly less secure than Gringotts—it was unlikely that Harry could have broken into the bank at age twelve. This path just led to more and more unanswered questions.

He had contemplated making protective charms for the unicorns. It was the sort of thing Gryffindorish people would never do—magical, noble beasts, surely they can protect themselves, let them roam free! Oh, tragedy, Voldemort is stronger than a unicorn—we had no idea! We were planning on using those unicorns to win the war! But we can protect them ourselves—we have a single groundskeeper on the job, and oh, he's not allowed to do magic. He's big, though!

Or maybe the centaurs would step in and save the day, or were supposed to so that they could feel like they participated, or to teach Harry a lesson about interspecies cooperation. Oren could only attribute that sort of thinking to point-blank, willful denial that for the most part, centaur minds were really alien, they not only didn't share Dumbledore's values but probably couldn't even make sense of them, and they didn't really like us all that much. The Forbidden Forest was like a zoo or small reserve for animals like the unicorns—tiny compared to their natural range, but big enough that they could muddle through their existences as a reflection of what they once were. But for a species as, or maybe more, intelligent than humans, it was practically a concentration camp. The centaurs had nowhere else to go—wizards didn't want muggles seeing them, but in the end these were British centaurs—their ancestors had been here for thousands of years. They speak English as their native language, for Merlin's sake. Argh!

He had been staring at the wall in the common room, his transfiguration essay in his lap, for the past half hour. Ever since he came back, he had gotten caught in these frustrating loops where he would get angrier and angrier but not any closer to a solution. He knew he was supposed to get out there and make everything better, and it was clear that the other time traveler or travelers had done a lot more work so far than he had. That was, however, all done with relatively manageable tasks, he noted. Kidnapping a nine-year-old was in fact much simpler than expanding the walls or the Forbidden Forest, or protecting the unicorns, or moving the fragments of a dark lord's soul around. He was used to being a professional, motivated mostly by clients' commissions and a vague desire to raise the aesthetic standards of wizarding society. Maybe if he just picked a small, easily articulated annoyance, he could treat it like a commission, and make it go away. He needed to _do_ something, at any rate. "Like, say, my homework." He sighed, and stared at his paper again.


	14. Mail Forwarding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonks tries to send mail to Harry. Potentially disturbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 14: Mail Forwarding

 

Saturday, September 22, 1990.

 

The first few times Tonks tried to use a school owl to send mail to Harry, she had gotten no response. She knew not to expect a ten-year-old boy to be much of a correspondent, but she _was_ getting worried. The next time, she tried addressing the note to "Harry Potter, Longbottom Manor", and telling the owl where to find him; she got a response from him two days later in the morning post. That was odd.

The next time she wrote to him, she used just his name and gave the owl no special instructions, but put a tracking charm on the letter. After dinner that night she decided to check up on it, and the charm just indicated that the letter was upwards. "Did something happen to the owl?" A visit to the owlery was unenlightening; there were dozens of school owls, most of which looked like they might have been the one she used. At least none were sitting there with a letter still tied to their leg.

"Did one of you take a letter to Harry Potter today?" The owls just looked at her. "Well, it was worth a try. I guess you guys don't normally have to remember every letter you ever delivered."

The next morning, the letter was still being detected as "up". After her last class for the day, she had a few hours before dinner, and decided to do some reconnaissance by broom.

Tonks quickly realised she had missed flying for just the fun of it. Hogwarts Castle has somewhere between five and thirty-seven towers, depending on how you count, the needs of the school, and the arcane workings of founders'-era magics. The overall floor-plan had been stable during Tonks' last timeline, but presumably if the Headmaster really wanted it, entire wings could be moved around.

In any case, the tracking charm's "up" soon resolved itself into a spot halfway up a minor tower. Circling closer, she found an open window and flew up to it, but her eyes couldn't make out anything inside; the late-afternoon sun was too bright in comparison for her eyes to adjust. She checked the window for wards, but came up with nothing. There might be something troublesome inside, but she knew how to take reasonable precautions when entering a strange room.

The auror academy had not, in fact, covered "entering a strange room through a window you can barely squeeze through, while you are 200 feet above the ground on a broom." Tonks fell through the window, which turned out to be four or five feet above the floor inside. She managed to avoid serious injury by falling into a roll, which ended with her crashing into some rickety metal shelving, followed by a mountain of paper landing on her head.

"Well, so much for a cautious entry. Lumos!"

The room contained a series of shelves, arranged like library stacks, and covered in piles of mail—ranging from ordinary-sized envelopes to some fairly large packages. She looked up and saw a box balanced precariously above her, close to falling off. "That was close." She stood up, more or less unhurt.

"First things first." She had no idea what might have happened to her broom, and was afraid to look. The window was at about head height for her; she had to pull herself up and lean out to see anything. "Damnit. Let's see . . . accio broom!" This caused some motion, allowing her to spot it on a rooftop several hundred feet away, but it was too far for her to summon. Harry had summoned a broom from within the castle during the Tri-Wizard, right? So it wasn't impossible. She'd try later after she'd had longer to recover from her tumble through the window.

"Right then. So what's in here, anyway?"

The room was obviously bigger on the inside than the exterior of the tower that housed it. A single door, closed, presumably led out to a landing of a spiral staircase. She wasn't going to try that, yet. A quick safety-check, which she kicked herself for not doing earlier, revealed a charm on the middle of the floor that probably directed incoming mail to more-or-less free shelves. Owls would know to fly there, and letters would be automatically untied from legs and levitated into place. There didn't seem to be any provision for refiling anything that got knocked out of place.

"Fine." She was quite good at organizational charms, and soon had all the mail at least back on shelves, if not in its original locations.

"So really, what is all this?" It was soon clear the entire room was redirected mail that had been sent to Harry—everything since he had been one and placed with the Dursleys. For whatever reason, Dumbledore had never stopped having it sent here. Tonks picked a shelf and started going through it.

"Ads, ads, okay that's normal, here's a card. Let's see it." Tonks had been taught several techniques for getting letters out of sealed envelopes and back. Clearly celebrity stalking—well, no, Harry was legitimately her friend in both timelines—snooping, then, was the highest and best use of these skills. She proceeded to snoop.

The room, she decided, had not been particularly neat to start with. She found evidence of mice (why didn't the owls get them?) in one corner, and several packages that had once contained food had in fact been chewed open. Other than the ones already open, Tonks couldn't do much discreetly with most of the packages—there was tape at some layer that she couldn't undo magically without tearing, and solid objects couldn't be magically manipulated through small holes as easily as letters could. A few things were obvious—some books, a broom—but mostly she was limited to letters. There were a lot of letters.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dear Harry,

Happy Birthday! My mum thinks you are turning seven this year. My name is Sarah and I am 6. I hope you are okay and having a good birthday, and get lots of presents.

love,

Sarah

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dear Harry Potter,

My brother says you must be a very powerful wizard to have blocked a killing curse. I want to know if you can do magic yet even though you're only 9? I am ten and my family won't buy me a wand because they say I won't use it safely. Do you remember Voldemort? What was he like? Do you ever get to play with other kids your age? Please write back!

Robby

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

29 July, 1982

Dear Harry,

I know you are probably too young to read this, but hopefully when you are older you'll be glad to have letters like this. My husband and son were both killed by the dark lord, and it means a lot to me to know that they didn't die in vain, that he was ultimately stopped. I know you were just a baby, but that event changed so much. I hope you never see the world again the way it was during the war.

[This letter went on to describe the author's husband and son, and included a family photo.]

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dear Harry,

I'm your biggest fan! I know nobody knows much about you, like where you live or who you are friends with. A few of my parents friends live around Surrey and have seen you sometimes with your relatives, but they said your relatives are really careful about who you talk to. I guess that's understandable if they think maybe some people would want to hurt you. But one of them said you looked about my age and were cute, and still had that lightning bolt scar on your forehead.

I hope you don't feel bad about that scar; I think scars can make people exciting, don't you? Do you have a girlfriend? I'm eight and have never had a boyfriend. My mother says that I'm too young but she's wrong. If you wanted, I would be your girlfriend. Even if you don't want me to be your girlfriend, please write back! And I would really really like it if you could send me a photo of yourself so I can hang it in my room.

XOXOX (my sister says that means "hugs and kisses")

Kim

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Tonks had no idea who these people were, but there were a lot of letters like them. A few writers sounded like shoo-ins for Quibbler columnists, and a few were actively unfriendly, but she didn't find anything dangerous, but most of the personal mail was sincere and heartfelt. Some of the cards were hand-drawn, with varying degrees of complexity and artistic success (wizards were unfortunately not known for artistic ability of any sort). On the shelf she was looking at, besides yet more junk mail (of which Harry had received a surprising amount), Tonks found business proposals (many likely fraudulent), Ministry pamphlets, personally-addressed requests for donations to charities, and at least two formal-looking proposals for arranged marriages. She hadn't found anything from anyone she knew.

After going through hundreds of these, she came to a thick manilla envelope, sealed with wax, addressed simply:

 

"To: Harry Potter

Only to be opened by Harry."

 

There were indentations along the edge where the owl had carried it; it was impressive that you didn't see that more often with things you couldn't tie to their legs for them. Tonks briefly hesitated to look at it, but curiosity got the better of her, and she cast the charms which rolled the contents up into tiny tubes that could come through the top of the envelope, then brought them flat again. The first thing to come out was a letter.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

IF YOU ARE READING THIS AND ARE NOT HARRY POTTER, SHAME ON YOU.

THIS IS FOR HARRY ONLY.

 

Dear Harry,

I bet you get a lot of letters from girls who want to be your girlfriend, and I don't know how you feel about that or whether you already have one. But I'd really like it if you'd consider me.

I saw you in the grocery store and recognized you by your scar, but my parents wouldn't let me go talk to you. I wish I had run off anyway. You looked like you didn't get along with the people you were with. Were they your muggle relatives? and I felt bad for you. I think you are very good-looking, and I can't stop thinking about you.

I'll be eleven this next January, so I'll start Hogwarts the September after that. I'm only a year older than you so I'll be able to meet you once you get there, but I was hoping if you liked me back you would meet me now?

My aunt taught me how to develop photos last year, and I got my own camera for Christmas. My family lets me use the attic for a darkroom. I like it up there because there are lots of boxes up there and I can pretend to make houses out of them or hide from my parents.

I have sent you some photos of me that I took myself. My camera has a timer, so I can get myself into the photos I take. I think I am okay looking. I'm not fat or anything, and I take dance lessons. I'll be sad if you don't like me back but I know there isn't much chance of you liking a girl like me. Please don't show the photos to anyone else or tease me about them.

Okay I am really nervous so I am going to say goodbye before I get too scared to send this.

love,

Rachel Comrie

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

That name sounded familiar—that girl must have been sorted just this year! The photos in the envelope were 8"x10", carefully placed between two sheets of cardboard, so Tonks had some difficulty finessing them out one by one.

The first was a photo of a small, white, fluffy dog, sleeping in a bed next to a fireplace. On the back was written "This is our dog Xenophon. He's really old but he's my best friend."

The next three were photos of the girl's yard. Tonks was impressed; it was tricky to do anything artistic with wizard photos, but Rachel had managed to capture the subtle movements of tree branches and flowers swaying in the breeze and clouds moving across the sky.

The fourth was a picture of Rachel herself, in her garden, smiling and waving. Tonks thought she had seen that girl in the hall—maybe she had been sorted into Ravenclaw? "This is me, in the garden."

The next showed her sitting cross-legged on her bed, with the same smiles and waves. Among some music posters and pictures of hippogriffs on the wall behind her, Tonks could make out lightning bolt scar, suggesting a hand-drawn picture of Harry. "My room."

Then Rachel standing next to the drawing, which showed her and Harry holding hands under a tree with a castle, presumably Hogwarts, in the background. It was actually pretty good. "I drew this! I hope you like it. I could draw you something if you want."

Tonks started removing the photos so that she read the backs first.

"I took these next few before going to bed. I had to use the flash for them and also leave the aperture really wide, which is why I'm the only thing in focus!" Rachel was sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing flannel pajamas. She had turned the camera 90 degrees to take portraits.

"I'm not very developed yet, because I'm only ten, but I don't think you'll mind." She had unbuttoned her top, holding it open to show her chest. She looked completely un-self-conscious.

"A close-up portrait." She was standing now, and had taken her top off to pose from the midriff up. She turned around, showing long blonde hair down past her shoulder blades.

"I think I'm pretty, but you can see that for now the only thing I'm developing is photos (ha! ha!)." She had removed the rest of her pajamas and moved the camera back to include the rest of her body. Now she looked a little awkward, and moved back to sit on the edge of the bed, spread her legs, looked down and back at the camera, and grinned sheepishly. Tonks watched this repeat several times, dazed, before moving to the last photo.

"Okay, this was this morning right before I developed these. I said I took dance lessons and I wanted you to see. You can see with the sunlight there is a different color balance. I think I look better in the sun. ps. I really really hope you like these, because I will be really embarrassed if you don't." Rachel was still in her bedroom, nude save for a pair of ballet slippers. Sunlight was streaming in the window, and she had contrived to have it occasionally backlight and catch her hair as she went through several ballet positions, piruoettes, and kicks. It was the dancing of a ten-year-old who had only taken a few lessons; unpolished, but not innocent either. She very clearly knew what she was revealing, such that each move, were it executed by an older, more skillful dancer, would have been stunningly sexual.

 

Tonks felt drained and confused as she charmed the photos back into their envelope. What Rachel had done was, taken as a whole, an entirely normal thing for a ten-year-old girl to try; Rachel just also had the artistic ability to back it up. Given a crush on a boy, a camera, a willing owl, and a complete lack of anyone stopping her, she had put together what seemed to her a natural way to get Harry to like her. It was also probably illegal. Maybe. Even after several years experience as an auror, the question was really complicated. Tonks just sat there for several minutes, lost in thought.

Eventually, she realized she was hungry and that it had been dark outside for several hours. A time spell revealed it was 8:24. On one side of the room was a warded door; if she didn't go through it properly it would probably alert Dumbledore, who might have entirely forgotten this room existed. Aside from her desire to stay out of trouble, after that last letter, Tonks didn't really like the idea of Dumbledore having access to all of Harry's mail.

She did a quick calculation: She had sifted through a few hundred letters—let's call it 200—there were four sets of free-standing shelves, and more on the walls—after a little more figuring she estimated there were upwards of 10,000 pieces of mail in here. For all she knew, that meant another 50 or so letters like Rachel Comrie's.

She wondered how many students at Hogwarts right now had sent letters to Harry which were in this room, and how many of those letters would cause unspeakable embarrassment if they got into the wrong hands. Well, this one was in her hands now, and if she let it get to anyone other than Harry, it would be a disaster. She shrunk it, stuck it into her pocket, put a sticking charm on it, and layered several more charms on it for good measure. 'Constant Vigilance!' she thought, laughing, then turned to her more serious problem of escape.

"Ugh. How the hell do I get out of this one?" Tonks was not at all confident of her ability to pick apart Dumbledore's wards without being detected. Sure, she could overload most of them and blast the door away if she didn't care about being noticed, so she wasn't _completely_ screwed, but there was far too much at stake for other people for her to risk using brute force here. She decided to make a second desperate attempt to summon her broom.

She remembered the vague direction it had been in; she hoped nothing had moved it. Standing on her tiptoes, holding her wand above her head and pointing down towards the rooftop, she started in:

 

"Accio broom!

Accio my broom?

Accio Tonks's broom!

Accio Nimbus 500?"

 

She waited, concentrating for a while. Nothing.

"Okay, if I'm just going to try harder, there's a smart way and a stupid way to do this." She cast a silencing charm in a bubble around herself—she could still cast spells and hear herself doing it, but no one would hear her screaming across the rooftops (or, she mentally added, her swearing across the rooftops, or crying hysterically . . .).

 

"ACCIO BROOM!"

 

She went on like this for a while, trying to focus. Her hair cycled through scarlet, electric blue, turquoise—in streaks, lengths changing; one eye went a deep violet and stayed there, the other cycled between green and yellow. She regressed in age, alternating between her appearance when she met Harry, and the features of the girl from the photos. She was screaming.

 

"ACCIO THE DAMN BROOM, DAMNIT, ACCIO BROOM!

ACCIO MY FUCKING BROOM!"

 

She had stopped, out of breath, still holding her wand above her head, when without warning she was knocked out with a blow to the temple.

She came to a few minutes later, dizzy, bleeding, and under a pile of mail. "Damn. That blood is going be hard to get off. Worry about it later." With one hand applying pressure to the gash on her forehead, she cleaned up the mail as best as she was able. "Okay, broom."

Unwilling to repeat her mistake entering through the window, she resolved to go through the window on the broom, however stupid she looked while doing it. It wasn't, she thought, like Madam Hooch, or her auror instructors were going to be on the other side criticising her as she came out. And so she lay headfirst on her broom, legs wrapped around it, flying one handed out the window into the night. It had gotten cold, and it was much colder up here. The chill made her slightly more alert, but she knew she really ought to get to the hospital wing.

 

* * *

 

The first thing she noticed upon waking up the next morning was the white curtain drawn around her. "Ugh." There was a glass of water on the table next to her. She drank it, and felt a little better. She remembered explaining (entirely truthfully!) to Madam Pomfrey that she had gotten hurt trying to summon her broom. The healer had sighed, saying "you have no idea how many times I have seen that exact same injury." Tonks had been kept for observation for the night in case she had a concussion, and had been given the usual nasty-tasting blood-replenishing potion.

"Good, you're awake. You look better—last night you were so dizzy I thought you might collapse! Drink this. Yes, I know, it tastes awful. That's because I have Severus add the flavor for me—can't have people wanting to take medicine like it was pumpkin juice or something." Tonks hadn't the faintest idea if Madam Pomfrey was joking. She knew _some_ mass-produced potions were sold with bitter flavor added, and the muggles did that stuff to virtually everything, but she didn't think it was justified at Hogwarts out of anything but sadism.

"Blech. Couldn't he just, I don't know, dye them bright green and put bigger labels on them, and make them cherry-flavored or something?"

"You might think that at first, but I have learned over the years that wizards will eat and drink almost anything. Once they learn that earwax-flavored jellybeans are a delicacy, then they develop a taste for the grass-, rotten egg-, and dirty-sock-flavored ones, and you'd _think_ that there was really nowhere else to descend to from there, but no, they just take that as a challenge and move on to dirt, earthworm, and troll bogey. Hold still for a minute . . ." She changed the bandage on Tonks' head, and concentrated while waving her wand back and forth a few times. "Looks good. Anyway, and then, after all that, they come in _here_ wanting medicine to taste like cherries and oranges! No! It's ridiculous, and I won't do it. How does standing up feel? Good!" She smiled. "If you can walk out of here, you're free to go. That was a joke—don't worry, I think you're fine. Just _try_ to pay more attention when you summon things in the future?"

As Hogwarts mysteries go, the ingredients in Madam Pomfrey's potions were not one of the more arcane or exciting ones, but Tonks decided to ask around anyway.


	15. Seventh-Year Divination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trelawney in the classroom. You didn't think I had forgotten about her, did you?
> 
> Warning: Disturbing Divination lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 15: Seventh-Year Divination

 

Tuesday, September 25, 1990

 

It was a nice day out, probably one of the last before the Scottish autumn would force her to use warming charms if she wanted the windows open. Sybill Trelawney watched her silk curtains billow and flap in the breeze, and the smoke from her censers swirl and disperse. Her seventh year class was coming in by ones and twos.

She liked this group of students, mostly. There were twenty-nine of them, which was a few more than usually went for a N.E.W.T. in her subject. A few of them had real gifts, a few others believed themselves to, and the rest just wanted an easy class. Fortunately the examiners weren't particularly gifted, either, so they would all probably muddle through. The topic she planned to cover over the next few weeks might show up in one or two short questions on the test; what she was about to do wasn't justifiable as exam prep.

She had been making a show of staring into space; normally this was not much of an act, but today she was trying not to look nervous. The potions she had drunk earlier were helping with that. So was the sherry, which she had taken up drinking as a necessary affectation. She tried not to take that past the point required for her image, but she knew that sometimes she was overdoing it, which depressed her.

She turned around on her stool to face the class, absentmindedly looking them over.

"It looks like you are all here. Good. Over the next four or five classes we will be doing something unusual, a subject which your books treat only in passing. N.E.W.T. examiners are permitted to ask about it, though, so you should all pay close attention and take careful notes." She stood up, making it easier to punctuate her speech with dramatic flourishes of her hands.

"Now, as you know, in the five short years we have together, sadly we can only scratch the surface—gaze, for a moment, into the fog!—of the full scope of the arts I introduce you to here." She took pride in sentences like that. "You should know I am touched that so many of you have chosen to stick with me all the way to the end, so to speak, and as a thank you, I like to give my seventh years a few tastes of something deeper than the day-to-day mysteries we are obligated by the curriculum to explore.

So! For those few of you who have remained because you think this is a lightweight, unserious class, perhaps today will leave you with a different impression. For those of you who have enjoyed our journeys into the mysteries of the future, but will go on and graduate, never to use what you learned, I'd like to give you something to look back on, and perhaps think fondly of me.

As I have told you, I believe a few of you have true gifts—yes! some of you in this class have been born with a talent in this noble art, and perhaps today will inspire you to cultivate it throughout your lives." She smiled lovingly, her gaze wandering over no-one in particular.

"Before we go any further, I must warn you that today's class might be unsettling to some of you, beyond the usual effects of contemplating the future. Professor Snape, understanding the value of what I am about to teach you, has graciously agreed to brew some potions which will make it easier for you. Could I get two volunteers to distribute these, please?"

She pulled from beneath her desk two potion cases, instructing her volunteers to pass one of each to everyone.

"The brown one is a calming draught, and the pink is an anti-emetic. You _must_ drink the entire vial of each—I know they taste bad, but many of you will need the assistance to prevent distractions of mind and body. You might find that drinking the pink one first helps you with the taste of the brown one." Many students looked openly worried; Sybill avoided meeting their eyes. She sat and waited until they had all managed to get the potions down.

She then walked to the corner, moving a pile of silks and pillows from where they had covered a pile of boards, part of the materials she needed for the day. "Could I get a few more volunteers to help distribute things? Oh, thank you. Please put one on my desk, too.

I found these in the Divination storeroom, and recognized them immediately from my lessons with my grandmother. It has been over a century, I believe, since they were last used in this castle. Good, those are heavy and I didn't want us lugging them about later. I'll hand out everything else later, after you have watched my demonstration."

She went into the adjoining room, which connected the classroom with her personal quarters, and came back carrying a bird cage containing a pigeon. "Now, who can give me the definition of 'extispicy'?"

A girl in the front row tentatively raised her hand. Sybill nodded to her. "Uh, I think it's divination by examining the entrails of animals."

"Right! A point to Hufflepuff." Sybill proceeded to give a speech about death and respect for life, and about the relationship between humans and animals, and about pedagogical necessity. She had spent several weeks preparing it, and it was, she thought, thoroughly Dumbledorean in its glossing over of difficult topics.

 

* * *

 

Nancy Miller had, in her six-years-and-change at Hogwarts, seen professors do some disturbing things. There were some fairly icky potions ingredients, and she hadn't been very comfortable with transfiguring a goblet into a living raven, whose entire existence spanned only the time it had taken her to transfigure it back again. She had occasionally witnessed the effects of healing potions on catastrophic injuries, and that had been pretty creepy.

But now she had just watched her crazy—but up to this point seemingly benign—Divination professor hold a pigeon above her head while incanting something in Greek, pin its wings to a cutting board with a sticking charm, and slit its throat, all the while acting as if this were a slightly more exciting variety of tea-leaf reading. Nancy took Professor Trelawney at her word that this had once been a major part of the Hogwarts curriculum, and she had seen a few pureblood witches nod their heads in recognition.

And now Trelawney was passing out pigeons, which she claimed to have found in Trafalgar Square that morning, from an enormous, squirming, flapping burlap sack that was labeled "POTATOES". The effects of the calming draught felt like stepping back from her emotions—she could see what they would have been, but she was free to act as if they weren't there. And so the ethical questions that were about to arise for her seemed like purely philosophical ones, without the familiar gut feeling of disgust that might have otherwise governed her judgment.

 

* * *

 

Tonks was on her bunk, reading, when Nancy walked in.

"What happened? You look like you're in shock." Tonks had seen that look before, far too many times, in the aftermath of battles.

"Trelawney made me kill a pigeon."

"Huh? Here, have a seat." Tonks had the bunk below Nancy; they had been friends since fourth year. Nancy sat down, just staring.

"She made us take a calming draught first, and something to keep us from wanting to throw up, and so it seemed okay as I was doing it, but those potions are going to wear off. I wish I could be asleep when it happened, but Pomfrey won't give out sleeping potions unless something is seriously wrong with you."

"She has some firm ideas about how medicine ought to work. So, what was going on? This was in class?"

"Yeah, she said she wanted to do something special for us seventh-years, and so she decided to teach us to read entrails."

"Seriously?!"

"Yeah. And we have a bunch of classes left on it, too. She had us put the pigeons—after we had pinned them to a board and cut them open—in a stasis charm until the next class."

"What, left behind in the classroom?"

"On some shelves in the back room. She said she we could take them with us to study, or leave them there, and she actually made a joke about how dead birds weren't against the rules."

Tonks didn't remember this from her original timeline. It seemed out of character for Trelawney, who had always seemed batty but harmless enough. She didn't see how traveling back in time would make Trelawney any more likely to teach pigeon-dissection, though, so the simplest theory wouldn't work here. Maybe it had really happened and she hadn't been attentive enough to notice the first time? For pre-academy Tonks that was entirely possible.

"I could cast a sleeping charm on you—knock you out. It wouldn't be like a dreamless sleep, though—you could still have nightmares."

"That would be better than nothing. I think I might have something like half an hour left before it all wears off. Let me get into my pajamas."

"Okay. I could bring you some food from dinner, if you like—you'll probably wake up after it's over."

"Oh, Merlin, thank you. I'm not sure I'll have much appetite, though. Like, ever again."


	16. Breakfast at the Slytherin Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oren in the library, then reading the paper at the Slytherin table gets out of hand.
> 
> Warning: Weird sexualised role-playing.
> 
> At the time I wrote this I mis-remembered Rita Skeeter's appearance, and decided to make it true in this universe instead of editing this chapter. Don't get hung up on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 16: Breakfast at the Slytherin Table

 

Monday, October 1st, 1990

 

Over the past few days, Oren had been keeping a mental list of everything that pissed him off. It was not a short list. He had tried to pick out items that were articulable problems—ones where, if he tackled them, it would be clear whether he had solved them or not.

Right now he was in the library, trying to do homework at a table near the back. The Hogwarts library was a cavernous, rectangular space with a high, vaulted ceiling, and lit by enormous and elaborate stained glass windows set in peaked arches. Rows of tables ran down the middle, with an aisle on either side, and broken up by low shelving containing various reference works and what passed for catalogs and indexes in the wizarding world. On the outer sides of the aisles were the stacks, sometimes arrayed in even rows, sometimes mazelike, and usually, but not always, in the same configuration from day to day. These rose fifteen feet high, out on the floor, and a perilous twenty-five along the walls, the upper shelves accessed by rolling wooden ladders in various states of stability.

In the back right, currently to Oren's left, the Restricted Section was set off by a combination of inward-facing shelves and wooden railings. It was notoriously easy to get into it unnoticed, and fiendishly difficult to figure out which books would not shriek or bite you. Oren had never bothered going in there.

The library's floors, walls, and ceiling were all stone, causing the sounds of whispers to carry the length of the room (although not necessarily comprehensibly), and louder noises to echo. Madam Pince had to make some hard calls as to when scolding a student for noisiness would actually improve things, or just contribute to the problem. Normally she limited herself to stopping ongoing conversations that had gotten out of hand. Oren had been watching her, and she seemed like a nervous wreck.

Right now she was stalking the length of the room, from her desk at the front, back to the table next to Oren's where a group of girls had abandoned homework in favor of enthusiastic gossip. He wondered why no one had bothered to put silencing charms in here; that certainly seemed easier than changing students' behavior.

One of the major premises behind his business in the original timeline was that the world in general, and the wizarding world in particular, were absolutely full of interesting things that no one had thought of, or at least that no one had gotten around to doing yet. He decided the lack of silencing spells in the library was probably due to a combination of tradition, a mindset focused on changing behavior instead of adapting to it, and the fact that getting it right would be damnably tricky.

Total silence was potentially unsafe—you needed partial dampening, compartmentalization, and rapid adjustability. Oren took out a spare piece of parchment and started drawing a diagram of the room. It had nothing to do with the wizarding war, and he would have to do it all covertly, but he _would_ be changing things, and it would help him stay in practice.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday morning saw Oren walking along the lake before breakfast, looking at rocks. In this part of Scotland there was no shortage of glacial till, bedrock outcroppings, and occasional ruins and construction debris from pre-Hogwarts and founders-era times. The glacial deposits in fact gave him a wide variety of stones to choose from; he was looking for durability as well as the ability to hold runes and charms. He would have to do all his cutting on-site and hide whatever was left behind—he wasn't powerful enough to hover-charm boulders all the way to his room, let alone avoid detection while doing so. Those things were _heavy_.

After noting a few decent candidates, he headed back to the school. His route took him past Hagrid's hut, and he saw the half-giant ahead of him, most of the way to the school. Oren had never taken Care of Magical Creatures the first time around, but in this timeline he planned to take all the courses he had missed. He wondered how knowledgeable Hagrid actually was about the large, dangerous beasts he seemed so fond of. Oren, like the rest of his house, had always assumed "not much", but had never really talked to Hagrid, either. If Hagrid turned out to actually be competent, it would be very useful to have someone like that to consult.

 

* * *

 

At breakfast, as Oren was casting the third drying charm of the morning on his dew-soaked socks and shoes, Bernard was flipping through the morning's Daily Prophet. "Here's another stupid Potter article."

"What's it say?" asked Erwin, chewing on sausage.

Bernard ran his finger from line to line. "Same damn things they always say—Longbottoms refuse interviews, the Minister says some pointless stuff, and nobody likes Dumbledore . . . then it says they should investigate him, see if he's really fit for his jobs if he let Potter get beat up by muggles. Heh. My father will like it, I bet."

"Was it that Skeeter woman again, writing it?" asked Oren.

"Yeah. Has she done a lot of them?"

"Over and over. It's like she's obsessed. Do you suppose she has a thing for ten-year-old boys, and refusing to give her interviews is just making him mysterious and turning her on?"

Erwin snorted. "I saw her once at some event my family made me go to. The way she looks, it's more likely she has a thing for ten-year-old girls." Bernard laughed.

"Could be both, you know." Oren tried to make progress in small steps.

"Yeah."

There was a fourth-year girl sitting next to them, Becky Eakins. "My father's met Rita Skeeter a few times. He says she overdoes everything but is basically okay. I mean, he didn't say she _wasn't_ a pedophile. If you guys are done speculating about her, could I see that article? Thanks." Then, after a few minutes, "you know, my little sister was really upset that she didn't get invited to Harry's birthday party. She was too young, or I guess too stubborn, to understand the reasons why. Cried and screamed for days. But my point is, she cuts out every photo of the kid that the Prophet prints, and hangs them up in her room. It's like a little shrine to him. And I _know_ some of her friends do that too. I don't see the attraction there, but if it works for little girls, maybe it works for Skeeter."

"Yeah," chipped in a girl, Rissa Silverbrier, who was sitting across from Becky, "when he gets here next year all the girls from the other houses are going to be all over him. My mother says when she was here there was this kid—Gilderoy Lockhart—he's really famous now—that had the girls all after him. She said he pretended to be all noble even back then, but he did every one of her friends in the broom closets. So anyway that got out of hand and they all started trying to use love potions on him, and then on each other, and it was an awful mess. She says she stayed out of it."

"Ouch," said Becky, "that sounds bad. I hate girls like that. And they wouldn't care about detentions or house points, they'd just think they're suffering for their twoo luvv. I bet all you can do then is get good at defensive charms and stock up on love-potion antidotes, and hope your house has it less bad than the others if you want to win the cup."

while At this point Oren was feigning disinterest and reading the rest of the Prophet, having stolen it back from Becky. Erwin and Bernard had been following along intently. "Wait, love potions are real?" Erwin asked.

"Oh, sure, there are lots of different kinds," Rissa explained, "and they'd be really dangerous too if the antidotes were hard to get. It's really just a prank, almost, because somebody's friends always figure it out and rescue them."

"It's a prank until somebody gets pregnant!" protested Becky.

"There are potions for that, too," said Rissa slyly, "and anyway they feel like they're consenting at the time, so nobody ever gets traumatized by a love potion—just embarrassed. And afterwards everyone else knows it wasn't really them doing it, so nobody's going to think they're morally challenged or have bad taste or something."

"What, so you'd be okay with it if some Gryffindor dosed you with one and made you suck him off in the closet seven times a day, until your friends decide you weren't actually a slut to start with and notice something's wrong—of course, assuming your friends don't think it's hilarious and leave you to it, right?" Bernard and Erwin snickered.

Rissa looked exasperated. "Of course not, I'd hunt him down afterwards and get revenge. Look, all I'm saying is there are far worse things to have happen to you. Look at the Potter kid—imagine you're him—what's worse, losing your parents, almost getting killed by Voldemort, living with muggles for nine years, who whip you every day or whatever—heck, having Dumbledore as a guardian sounds dangerous enough by itself." At this point they were attracting looks from up and down the table. "Or, or, you could have sex with Rita Skeeter."

Rissa paused for effect, glanced at some older boys down the table, and noticed that Oren was pretending not to listen. "So, Oren, which would _you_ prefer—whipped by muggles every day, orrrr, Rita Skeeter?"

"Rissa!" Becky tried to kick her under the table.

Oren, having failed to stay out of it, decided to play along. "Well, you asked what I'd want if I were Harry," he said, grinning so that they'd let him continue, "and for all we know he likes his whippings. Maybe he gets Neville to do it now?" There was a satisfyingly wide variety of expressions now, ranging from mild horror to extreme amusement. "And besides, Harry hasn't really met Rita, right? Mrs. Longbottom won't let him—so he—or I— wouldn't know what my options were."

Two seats down on Oren's right, on the far side of Bernard and Becky, were another pair of girls who had been dying for an excuse to break into the conversation. Alexandra Misselbrook and Angelica Crane, usually known as Sandra and Angie, were roommates, and, when they weren't fighting, best friends.

Sandra was pointing at the photo of Rita. "Oh, he's right—I mean, that photograph of her is so small, and in black and white . . . Can I see it for a moment? Oh, we can totally work with this. Rissa, can you help me put a glamor on Angie here?"

Rissa had a look of dawning realization, then excitedly started waving her wand over Angie's face. "Can you do facial features? I'll get her hair . . . oh that's really good! You even got those pointy-ended glasses she wears. She has green lipstick too, though—you can't see it in the photo . . . there!"

Angie looked at herself in a mirror that one of the girls had pulled out. "I like it. Mmmm." She moved her lips around, seeing if the glamor would be flexible enough. It was. "Oh, and I'm supposed to have green nails, too, can you do that?"

"Oh, right! Uhh, there!"

"Okay Harry," said Sandra, leaning forwards around Becky so she could see Oren's face, "what do you think?" Angie played with her hair, and smiled sweetly at him.

Oren decided to see how far they'd go with it—he had _never_ joked around like this the first time around. "But I'm supposed to be Harry, too!"

The girls all looked at each other; Becky as if she were watching a train wreck, the others considering the possibilities. "Are you sure?" asked Sandra.

"Yeah, go for it." He gave his best confident grin. He had practiced a lot of expressions in order to make clients more comfortable, but this exchange was calling for some new ones. He was winging it.

There followed a flurry of activity as Angie slipped under the table, coming up on his left, and Sandra moved Bernard out of the way to sit on his right. Rissa prodded Erwin, saying "pass it down—front of the table—we need a distraction," then turned to start in on Oren's glamor, explaining "just in case it gets out of hand."

"Okay, first we get that scar, right?"

"Here, use the picture from the article—it's from a year ago, but who cares."

After adding the scar, the glasses, a few changes to facial features, and making his dirty blond hair look darker, they showed Oren the mirror. "Now my hair's too neat—mess it up some. Nice!"

"Alright, Harry," said Angie, once that was done, "don't you prefer me to those nasty muggles?" She put her arm around his shoulders and pouted her lips at him.

 

* * *

 

Miles Bletchley was sitting near the head of the table, nearest the staff, when the request for a distraction came down. That usually meant somebody was up to something that would potentially lose them more house points than a food fight, or else was hilarious but likely to get broken up by the teachers. Usually both.

He had a mission now, which was exciting. "Okay guys, get ready, but don't do anything until I get them to retaliate—just keep looking this way and acting normal for now." He broke up a piece of sausage with his fingers, placed it onto his spoon, and in a well-practiced motion, used that to catapult it onto the Hufflepuff table next to them. Five seconds later he did it again. The 'Puffs were whispering to each other.

"Don't worry," said Miles, "I know those guys, and they'll think it's fun, and then everybody else will join in because they hate us. Convenient. Okay—incoming!" The handful of students around him joined in. "Now for Ravenclaw." He started launching food—fruit salad seemed to be optimal—one table further over. At this point there was a commotion, and professors were standing up and saying things no one could hear.

 

* * *

 

"Oh Rita!" said Oren, "Mrs. Longbottom told me not to speak to you! She said you were a bad woman!"

"Oh, she did, did she?" Angie then whispered in his ear: "Turn towards me—straddle the bench—if you want me to stop at any point, just call me Angie when you do it, that way you can protest and I know you're okay." He nodded.

Sandra, who over heard this, snickered. "Like he's going to object."

Now they were facing each other. "Oh Harry," she purred, making a show of trailing her long green nails along his cheek, then down his chest, "I want you so bad—don't you want me? Don't you want to know what I can do with these acid-green lips?" She licked them, managing to look genuinely predatory. She had slid up to where their knees were touching, and was running her fingernails down the inside of his thigh. "Please, Harry, let me show you what a woman wants . . .," she made her voice breathy, "don't listen to Mrs. Longbottom. She just wants to control you like Dumbledore did—the beatings will start any day now, just wait!" She stood up, sitting down on his lap facing him, hands on his shoulders. "Okay?" she whispered.

"Yeah." Then, in a louder voice, "Rita, I don't know if we should be doing this! I'm not sure I'm ready! I've only done it with Neville before!" At this, several Hufflepuffs looked their way, the Slytherins' laughter being more distracting than the food fight.

Tonks had her back to the Slytherins, but was in hearing range, and cringed. From here she could see Rachel over with the Ravenclaws, laughing happily and ducking flying sausage and melon balls. She was surprised when the faculty table suddenly stopped looking agitated—apparently Dumbledore had settled something and they were all looking expectantly at him. He pulled out his wand, and started intercepting flying food, sending it back to its throwers. First one item at a time, then two. After a minute he was handling most of what was being thrown, looking as happy as she had ever seen him.

Once, in the previous timeline, she had watched him take on a dozen Death Eaters at once. It was on a remote hillside, where he didn't have to worry about hurting innocents or destroying buildings. Dumbledore had ripped dozens of boulders from the ground at a time, transfiguring them into iron spears as they flew, and distributed them neatly and evenly among all twelve of his adversaries, battering their shields, never missing. After he had kept this up for what had seemed like twenty minutes, half of them were dead and the other half had apparated away. Dumbledore had looked pretty angry at the time, but not at all fatigued. The man was scary—there was a reason Voldemort feared him.

Tonks felt like she was watching the scene all over again, except with fruit salad instead of boulders. If Dumbledore had felt like it, he could have been transfiguring all the melon balls and soggy grapes and chunks of pineapple, and could perhaps, if he wanted to, grab all the food off of all the tables. Tonks found it incredibly reassuring that this man—probably the most powerful wizard in a century—was cheerfully using that power for a food fight. She wondered if he was doing it on purpose, just to drive that point home, or whether he was merely having fun. He certainly didn't seem to be trying to stop the chaos or teach anyone a lesson.

At the same time, Angie's voice was getting louder and louder behind her, moaning inarticulately and calling out "Oh, oh, Harry!" Tonks found it seriously unsettling, but she also desperately wanted to watch. Finally she joined everyone else at her table who wasn't busy ducking or flinging food, and turned around.

Tonks couldn't see below the table, but Angie—who was a half-way convincing Rita Skeeter—was grinding against the crotch of whoever was pretending to be Harry, while he was thrusting up at her, supporting himself with his arms on the bench behind him. His face was a confused mixture of terror and arousal. Angie whispered something to Sandra, who moved to support Harry as Angie grabbed his hands and placed them on her breasts. "I know they're not as big as Mrs. Longbottom's, I hope that's okay . . . ooh . . ." Then she grabbed his head, pulling him by the hair until his mouth was against her breast—Tonks guessed the kid didn't know how far he was supposed to take this. "That's right, Harry, give me an interview, interview my breast . . ." she was moving faster, throwing her head back now—Tonks didn't think it looked like an act anymore. "Harry! Harry!" Her voice approached a shriek. "If only Minister Fudge were here!"

Sandra and Rissa wasted no time, dashing to the sixth year boy behind Angie, who was practically drooling at this point. Sandra grabbed the paper and flipped furiously, presumably finding a photo of the Minister, and within thirty seconds had a passable Fudge. "Okay, Fudge, go!" they said, and got out of the way. Angie got up and turned around, grinding back down onto Harry, beckoning to the Fudge lookalike—"Oh, Oh, Cornelius, we need you! Neither Harry nor I can cum without you here!!!"

The boy looked at a loss, briefly, before inspiration struck. "Oh, Rita, you know I want to, but I really think I . . . I should get Dumbledore's permission first."

Angie nearly fell off the bench laughing; it was clear nothing else was going to happen to top that. The glamors were taken off with a quick series of "finite!"s, which was good, because Dumbledore was so thoroughly dominating the food fight that students were losing enthusiasm. Rissa sent a quick "We're done over here—thank you!" down the line, and the food stopped flying from the Slytherin table.

Angie, standing up now, turned to Oren. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

She managed a hurried "okay, good," and ran out of the room.

"Uhh," said Oren, looking dazed as he watched her go, "did I do something to her I shouldn't have?"

Sandra snickered. "You didn't put out, and now she's all turned on and has to go take care of it. Maybe you should run after her—after all that, I bet you have the same problem." She grinned.

Becky hit her. "Sandra, you're awful. It was hilarious, but you're lucky he took that so well. You can't go pulling that stuff on first years—they can't all play along like that."

Oren started to say "I'm okay," but Sandra cut him off. "Oh, come on, he was totally into it! They were acting for, oh, the first few seconds, and then it was all grinding and moaning from there on out!" This was true, and when it had been happening it seemed like the sort of thing he would be foolish to say no to, but now Oren just wanted to slide under the table and hide.

"Oh, don't look so embarrassed. That was the funniest thing I've seen in a really long time. Better than Filch and the geese, even."

"Yeah," said Erwin, "he was just giving us a hard time yesterday about how we had to come up with something better than the Weasleys' stupid pranks."

"Uh, that wasn't really what I had in mind," said Oren.

Sandra snorted. "No, instead you were thinking of Angie's crotch."

"Hey," said the former Fudge, a boy Oren hadn't met in his first timeline. "I'd rather be thinking of that than geese any day, if it was me."

"I can't believe you all haven't gotten in trouble for that. She was nearly screaming!" protested Becky.

"That was what the food fight was for—the guys at the end were covering for us, so we'll have to be nice to them later," explained Rissa.

"Are you sure?" asked Oren. "It looked like Dumbledore saw us. Like he thought _he_ was covering for us, or something."

Variants on "Why would he do that?" came from several directions.

"Huh." Oren looked thoughtful. "Does Slytherin house usually laugh so much together at meals?"

Rissa answered "No, I don't think so. Definitely not at breakfast—that would be weird even for the Gryffindors. Hey Dermot, do you remember anything like that ever happening?" She looked at the boy who had been Fudge.

"No way. I'd remember it if it did, I'm sure."

"So you think Dumbledore wanted us to have fun or something?" asked Rissa.

Oren considered this. "Maybe? Couldn't he also be trying to make some point, like, he'll bend the rules for us, too, like he does for everyone else, if we do what he wants?"

"So what you're saying he wants, then," offered Sandra, "is more simulated sex with loud moaning in the Great Hall?"

Dermot added "I know I'm all for it," giving a lascivious look.

Rissa stuck her tongue out "Oh, you just wish it was you it happened to."

"You know it!" he replied, unembarrassed.

"Well," said Oren, "nobody got hurt, nobody jinxed anybody, we looked like we were having fun, and we kept the other houses out of it."

"Or maybe he just really hates Skeeter," suggested Bernard.

"Or," said Erwin, "maybe he's getting off on it himself."

It was mutually agreed that if Dumbledore had meant to send a message, no one knew what it was.

 

* * *

 

Oren had spent the day reliving the scene from breakfast, barely paying attention in classes. It had been the most he had done with a girl in either timeline. He hadn't been a social outcast or anything, but he hadn't hit it off with anyone he met, either, and had never learned how to go about meeting them. He had wondered about the motivations of a few witches who hired him to work in their houses, but had been far too professional to try anything. His parents, who wanted the family name to continue (his sister would probably give them grandchildren, which are not the same as an heir), weren't happy about it. So far that hadn't risen to open fussing, though, since it wasn't weird for wizards not to get married or have children until middle age; they had a little more leeway than muggles did, health- and fertility-wise.

Oren was puzzled as to what was going differently this time around. A lot of Slytherins had been pretty over-the-top the last time, too, but he didn't remember them doing anything so blatantly sexual and public. His question about laughing, too, had been sincere—for all he knew they had previously only ever joked around when he was out of the room.

He was in bed with the lights out, thinking about this while staring at the ceiling, when he heard footsteps and a tentative knock on the door. "Come in!" he called, using his wand to turn a lamp on.

The door opened to reveal Angie, in a close-fitting nightgown. She slipped in as if trying not to be seen, and quickly shut the door behind her.

"Can we talk?" She looked incredibly awkward.

"Sure."

"Can I sit?" she asked, looking at the foot of his bed. He nodded. He had a chair a few feet away at his desk; she could have sat down there despite the robes flung over it, but had gone for the bed.

"I kind of wanted to make sure everything was okay. I kind of got carried away this morning." She was blushing. Oren briefly wondered if some girls could fake blushes.

"I'm not traumatized or anything, if that's what you mean. If we had gotten in trouble I might have been. Uh, did any teachers say anything to you later? None of them said anything to me."

"No, I think we're good—there is _no_ good reason for that though. I totally lost it there." She smiled, which Oren interpreted as looking for reassurance.

He smiled back, then realized she was probably looking for something a little more definite out of the conversation, like knowing he wouldn't press charges or something crazy. This was one of those moments where he worried about sounding his age—he had never sounded his age the first time he was eleven, and wasn't sure how far he should fake it this time. His strategy so far had been 'don't treat them like clients, and don't pretend not to be nervous or socially awkward.' This seemed to be working; it's not like Hogwarts lacked its fair share of weird smart kids, or like anyone was actively looking for time-travelers. Or, at least, like anybody from this timeline was looking for them. Angie was looking at him. Right.

"Uh, if you are worried about me complaining or getting you in trouble, it's really okay." He decided to take a small risk. "Sandra said you ran off afterwards because of the way I did things—was what I did okay?"

He thought Angie looked like she was choking on her response, trying not to laugh, but also like she had been caught off-guard and was having to go off-script. She gestured, fidgeting with her hands in amused frustration.

"Argh! I don't know what to say."

"If it helps, it's okay if you laugh about it—I went along with it—originally, I mean—because it was too funny not to."

"What do you mean, 'originally'?"

"Ack." He felt himself blushing (and not faking it, he thought to himself). "I didn't mean to say it that way—it sounded okay in my head before I said it. I mean, er... sorry—I'm not used to talking about this stuff when I'm not joking around with Bernard and Erwin or somebody." This was true; he didn't need to fake awkwardness! Awesome! Sort of.

Angie grinned. "Nobody really expects you to be. If it weren't for Sandra, I wouldn't be either." Neither of them said anything for a while; Oren watching her, Angie staring at the floor. "You seemed to be really getting into it too," she teased.

"Yeah. Was that okay?"

"Oh! Of course. I mean, I kind of started it. I wouldn't have kept going like that if I hadn't felt you . . . respond. Argh. I sound like some kind of child molester! Uh, don't take that wrong—you're really mature for your age, but—"

"How old _are_ you?"

"Fourteen."

"Would anybody actually care?"

"It's probably illegal—I mean, if our clothes were off, it would be, so some people would be mad about it."

"Nobody else at the table but Becky seemed to care."

"That's because Slytherins don't give a shit about that—pardon my language—and Becky was totally faking it so she could feel superior." She grinned again. "I bet the 'Puffs were scandalized, though. I saw them watching us."

"Heh. I only just met Sandra, and I can hear her voice in my head saying 'They're just jealous!'" This was half-true, since he was sure the Sandra from the first timeline would, in fact, have said that.

"Hee. Yeah, they probably were. And Dermot's face when we made him be Fudge was just priceless! I have no idea how he came up with that Dumbledore comment—I know you don't know him—that was probably his current events awareness and clever line quota for the year, used up right there."

"I've never actually seen glamors used like that. I guess there isn't much use for an illusion that is really obviously an illusion."

Angie nodded. "Yeah, it's not good enough for stage make-up or anything, since you can't get the facial expressions to change right. It's sort of a sub-set of illusions—Flitwick had us work on those a little last year—he said wizards don't usually need to make illusions, since they can generally do the same things physically with magic. And they require some artistic skill—I'm babbling, sorry."

"No, go on—I'm interested." Oren had learned enough about illusions to pass Charms, so none of this was really new to him, but he had never made any use of them since his N.E.W.T.s. Mostly, though, he was surprised to see Angie talking animatedly about something academic—it was not something Slytherins were in the habit of doing.

"Right, so you can tell Sandra and Rissa have worked on it a little beyond what Flitwick taught us—we screw around trying to look like other people sometimes, and laugh about it, but the play-acting was something new."

"I wonder what Rita and Harry and Fudge would think of it."

"Oh, Fudge would bluster, Harry would be too innocent to understand, and I think maybe Rita would just break down and not know what to think, since she's always doing the making fun of people, not the other way around. I don't think she'd be able to ask for an interview ever again without thinking 'Oh, Harry, interview my breast!' Um, sorry about that, by the way."

"No, that was brilliant—I think sometimes you have to do things just for the sake of humor or aesthetics—like, if you didn't do them, the world would be a much poorer place." Oren actually had a lot of opinions on this, and was trying not to go overboard.

She snorted. "Of course, because pushing your face into my breast was great art."

"Actually, yeah. Yes it was." Now it was her turn to see him look animated. "It was really funny! I mean, I enjoyed it and it made everyone jealous," — he moved on from this as quickly as he could, dropping it in in passing, "but it was the right thing to do at the time. It was just so ridiculous that once you thought of it, you _had_ to do it, and maybe you were so turned on that that was the only reason you had the nerve to say it, but whatever, that's how people work and it made it happen."

"Oh, I see, you're fine talking about sex if it's all academic." She stuck out her tongue, but kept going before he could respond. "Mr. 'Oh, Rita, I've only ever done this with Neville!' That was awesome, by the way. I didn't expect you to say _anything_ like that—it was one of the reasons I wasn't thinking about your age beyond you pretending to be Harry. Well, that and also it was really hot. Come on, you thought so too!"

"I didn't say I didn't! I just didn't want to say something wrong and make you think I was creepy or something."

"Okay, that's fair. Here: I don't think you're creepy, and I give you permission to talk to me about sex without freaking out." She looked like she wanted to add to that, then switched gears: "Unless you're being Harry again and it's in character."

"I don't know, my Harry character was getting pretty comfortable with it by the end there. I could have been shouting 'No, Rita, noooooo!', though, instead."

"Right, and the only reason you didn't was because it wouldn't be aesthetically correct. Sure."

"Well, no, you could totally do a Harry/Rita scene and have it go that way. You did enough grabbing— _you_ could do it. Heck, who else is there who wants to rape Harry?"

"Ack—that makes it sound really dirty."

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine, I liked it, I was just surprised."

"So, who is there?"

"Oh, Merlin, I'm not sure. It'd have to be a public figure—Rissa and Sandra aren't good enough to do it without a photo."

"Have they ever tried other Hogwarts students?"

Angie cracked up. "Oh, that would be awesome! And yeah, they have. Some girls in other houses who you probably don't know. Professor McGonagall. Snape." She snorted.

"Snape? Did they use a girl for that, or drag some boy in?"

"Oh no, they did it to _me_. I make a very pretty Severus Snape, I'll have you know!"

"I don't know, the man has style. I'd like to see that—see if you can pull it off." Angie was doubled over with laughter; he kept going. "You'd have to get somebody to transfigure your clothes properly, and then you'd have to do his body language right. I mean, he _really_ plays it for all it's worth, and you'd be playing at being him, so it would have to be extra exaggerated."

She managed to stop laughing for a moment. "Wait, you think it's all an act?"

"'Act' isn't right. Hm. It really is a _style_ that he's picked for himself, and carefully worked at for years. _Nobody_ can talk like that, or go around in swoopy clothes like that, naturally, without trying really hard. I think he knows exactly what he's doing. Have you ever met Lucius Malfoy? Like, gotten to hang around him?"

"I was at a party with him once, yeah."

"Same thing. The man has style. You might not like it—most people find it exactly as off-putting as he intends it to be—but he's the same as Snape. Totally polished, deliberate image. Fudge is like the anti-Lucius—he tries, but he just comes off looking stupid."

"Huh. I never thought of it that way before. Is your family friends with the Malfoys?"

"As much as anybody is, I guess—it's like, nobody in my parents' social circles gives their kids a choice about who to play with or who to invite to their birthday parties. You wind up getting to Hogwarts without ever having any real friends, since you never got to choose them yourself."

"I don't think it works that way."

"Maybe not for everyone. It played out that way for us, though."

"You sound bitter. Also like you have thought about it a lot."

"Not really, and also I'm always getting told that kind of thing, because I'm smart for my age and people think that needs some sort of explanation." He was going out on a limb there.

"Oh, sorry. I guess that could sound bad—I didn't mean it that way."

"It's okay." He wanted to change the subject. "I'm not sure how comfortable I'd be doing a scene with Snape."

"Oh! I didn't mean to sound like you had to or anything! And I don't think the rest of the house would be comfortable watching that, either."

"Except for Sandra."

"Right. How about we reserve the Harry/Snape scene as a threat, if we get really mad at people and want to traumatize them?"

He grinned. "That works."

"So, McGonagall, then?"

"In the common room. Not where she could see it."

"Eee. How about Trelawney?"

"Is she the one with the huge glasses?"

"Yeah."

"I'd need some help ahead of time, since I don't know anything about her. Wouldn't it be better to do another student, though? They'd be more likely to be obsessed with Harry Potter."

"Ohhhhhhh. Damn. I wouldn't know where to start. Can we ask Sandra about that?"

"Sure, ask whoever you want."

"Oooh. I like this plan." She was fidgeting with her hands in anticipation, totally caught up in it, and then stopped and looked worried. "You know, I came in here, I mean, when I came in here I really wasn't expecting this conversation to go _this_ way. I had a couple ways I thought it might go, but nothing like this."

"Oh." Oren made a guess. "Now you're worried you're a dirty child molester, and everyone will be horrified and Dumbledore will expel you, and even Snape will laugh at you, and McGonagall will catch you looking like her and transfigure you into an urn or goblet or something . . ." This was beyond what eleven-year-old Oren could have come up with, but he was having too much fun to stop, and he really did want to make Angie stop feeling guilty. He hoped that it would get written off as being precocious with sarcasm, and pass as normal for a Slytherin. In any case she was laughing, but also cringing away from his onslaught. "And right now, they saw you come in here, and they're all out in the hallway listening to you, waiting to hear you moaning and me screaming as you tie me up and rape me over and over, all of them horrified about how you corrupted me, because I'm soooo innocent . . . and they are all planning on bursting in here hoping to catch you in the act, with their cameras,  
which they also used to take photos of you being Rita, and they've already sent those off to the Prophet, and Fudge will hear about it and condemn you in public, and," he closed gleefully, pointing at her, " _that_ will lead to an investigation of the school, so they'll close Hogwarts down for good because the Wizengamot thinks all everyone does around here is molest first-years in public, and Voldemort will take advantage of this and even Grindelwald will rise again—yes, even if he's dead—and it will _all be because you knocked on my door!!!_ "

"Eeeeeeeeeeee." She had fallen over onto the bed away from him, burying her face in the covers, shaking her head.

Oren couldn't resist, and put on his best concerned voice. "Angie, are you okay? I know I got caught up in the moment there, but it felt good and I thought it was okay because you were laughing, but I didn't mean to be mean and you're not mad at me or going to get me into trouble, are you?"

He was rewarded with snickering from under the end of his quilt, where Angie was pretending to hide. If she actually thought he was a freak, he figured, she would be looking disturbed, not laughing. It was a good sign.

"Um, Angie, are we even now?" He had sat up, and slid down slightly, so that he could put his hand on her thigh. "Seriously, this was the best conversation I've had in well, I don't know, maybe ever—I have the verbal ability to come off as more experienced than I actually am." This was entirely true. He didn't know what else to say.

Angie eventually sighed and got out from under the covers, sighed again, and looked at him, a resigned and tired expression on her face. "Okay, listen, I had a good time talking to you too, and I _don't_ think you're a freak or anything, and you shouldn't feel self-conscious about your age even though you probably will. I'd like to go back to my room and get some sleep. I'm feeling tired and sort of drained, and I'm worried you'll think I'm mad at you or something, but I really ought to go." She looked away, and started getting up. "Also the longer I stay, the more Sandra is going to tease me. Merlin, this . . . was not how I expected this conversation to go—heck, this whole _day_ has been like that. So, yeah, we're good. I'm going to kiss you on the nose now," which she then bent over and did, "because you won't know how to interpret it and I'm too tired to think of another way to get back at you for teasing me." She gave him a weak smile, and slipped out the door without saying anything else.

Oren just lay back down, staring at the ceiling again. He had to admit he felt pretty tired and drained, too.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, looks who's baaack!" Sandra and Angie shared a bunk bed, with Angie on the bottom; even if Sandra hand't been waiting up for her, she probably couldn't have climbed into bed undetected.

"Sooo. You were out for a long time. Did you convince your first-year you weren't a cock tease?"

"Shut up, Sandra."

"Wait, you didn't, did you? What were you doing all that time?"

"Talking."

"Oh, 'talking'." Sandra made air-quotes. Angie shook her head and started climbing up to her bunk. "What, did that nightgown not work? It's certainly revealing enough. Hey, I can see up it from here when you do that." Sandra had turned around on the bed, sticking her head out to look up the ladder. "Aww, you're wearing panties, that's your problem. Try leaving them off next time and he'll get the picture."

"I said shut up."

"Don't get snippy with me, young lady. You were the one out there taking advantage of his single room and the lack of alarms on the boys' dorms. I just wanted to know if that was _all_ you were taking advantage of."

"Argh!!!" Angie turned the light out and put her wand under her pillow.

"Oh, right, you went in there all horny from breakfast, since you only got yourself off four times afterwards, and you were hoping he'd be an easy lay because he was a firstie and you'd be his—heh—first—I mean, he might not be very big yet, but you got him hard easily enough. Aw, I can see it now, you went in there all confident, but pretending to be awkward, 'Oh, Oren, are you okay? I'm sorry I ran off after grinding into your hard-on and moaning for five minutes in front of the whole school, but really I'm not a cock tease.' And then you'd smile—with this sly look you practiced in front of the mirror for like an hour, and say 'If you want, I can make it up to you . . . I feel really bad about it, and I know you were really horny too . . .,' and then you were just going to pull the covers back without asking, and slip your hands into his pajamas—I bet they were blue flannel with little brooms and quaffles and stuff on them—and—"

"Sandra, if you don't fucking _shut the fuck up_ I am going to hex you until you beg for mercy, and I know some seriously nasty curses. Also I have access to you while you're asleep."

"Wow, you really _do_ need to get laid, I know it's not your time of the month . . ."

"Fuck you! This isn't funny anymore. Leave me the hell alone and let me get some sleep. Maybe it will be funny in the morning, but right now it isn't, and I am seriously pissed at you."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. I'll lay off."

Angie huffed, but said nothing more, not wanting to give her roommate any more encouragement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a really long time on this chapter. Not a long time writing it, but a long time coming up with character names, and an even longer time just wondering whether I really wanted to post it. My warning in my initial notes said the story would creep upwards in content ratings and warnings; I meant that. Once again, if anyone thinks I have the wrong warnings up, please let me know. Ficwad has per-chapter warnings; this site doesn't, so I don't have a feel for it yet.


	17. Charlie Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More time with the Weasley brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 17: Charlie Weasley

 

Wednesday, October 3, 1990

 

Rubeus Hagrid woke up to the distant barking honks and squeaks of geese, carrying from the Hogwarts Lake for a quarter mile and up the hill to his hut. These were barnacle geese, which winter in the Scottish lochs by the tens of thousands. This year, Hagrid estimated, just under a thousand had selected the lake to wait out the months until they could return to their breeding grounds in the arctic. The lake was actually quite big, contained substantial areas of food-rich marsh that the giant squid and other lake monsters couldn't reach, and was adjacent to all the grass of Hogwarts' well-kept grounds. Hagrid, who had to do the keeping of those grounds, would have preferred them to keep their droppings to areas that humans didn't want to walk on. The geese had been there first, though, and so long as they stayed off of the quidditch pitch he was happy for their noisy presence.

They were, in fact, quite noisy during most of their waking hours, and over the years Hagrid had grown very familiar with that noise. Nevertheless, if it weren't for his conversation with Charlie Weasley the other day, he wouldn't have detected the extra notes of alarm in the general din.

"I guess I'd better be checkin' that out, in case it's Fred an' George again. Breakfast'll have ter wait. Fang, do yer business—good boy. Now get back in here—ye'll just be makin' things worse if I take you down ter the lake—ye'll jes' be stirrin' the geese up an' chasin' 'em yerself, too."

With that he shut the enormous, disappointed boarhound back in his hut, and started down the hill to the lake. The alarmed-sounding geese were 500 feet away when he came around a bend in the trail along the shore, and got a good look at them for the first time. Periodically one, sometimes two geese would rise up into the air, sometimes as high as thirty or forty feet, flapping and squawking, move forwards, backwards, or sideways, or sometimes in vertical loops, and then return to the surface and dart away to saner waters. Hagrid sighed.

Being big did not mean Hagrid was unstealthy; on the contrary, he could move extremely quietly through the woods when he needed to. So after veering out into the trees and coming towards the shore directly, he was able to get quite close to the twins. He really didn't expect to find anyone _else_ getting up to this, but after what Charlie had said he had to consider the possibility of copycats. In this case, though, betting on the usual suspects was pretty safe.

"Darn it, Fred, how did Dumbledore manage to hover so many things at once? We've been at this for what, several days? And we can't manage to split the spell across more than one blasted goose. Maybe we should just try the crate idea of Charlie's."

"That one assumes we can then lift the crate. Either way, even one goose is heavy."

"It would help if they'd stop struggling—be easier to concentrate on a second one, then."

"I can't imagine what their problem with it is. You'd think they'd enjoy the chance to fly without having to flap their wings!"

"Ungrateful, truly."

"You know, after launching them in the air so many times these past few days, I'm beginning to really appreciate them. I think they're quite pretty, actually. Very well-designed for flying, swimming, . . ."

". . . making lots of noise, enraging Filch, . . ."

". . . and chasing Mrs. Norris!"

". . . Damn it! Let's just go get breakfast."

 

Hagrid chose this moment to clear his throat. "Hrrr-em. You know, boys, the trick t'the hover charm is t'start small. Dumbledore was doin' it wi' melon balls, an' here ye're tryin' t'use big, flappin', squawkin' waterfowl!" Fred and George had spun around. Hagrid was never sure if they were genuinely surprised when he caught them, or were just being pretending for the sake of humor.

"I wish we knew how he snuck up on us like that."

"Good morning, Hagrid! My brother and I were just heading up to the castle for breakfast. Won't you join us."

"Of course we have no idea what waterfowl you might be talking about!"

 

The three of them started off. "Now, boys, I'm goin' t'let this one go, since ye weren't hurtin' nobody, jes' annoyin' the geese some, but they _are_ contraband in the school. Merlin knows why—like I heard you say, they're beautiful creatures."

 

"George and I speculate," said George, after a while, "based on the arrangement of items on Filch's list, . . ."

". . . that banned items fall into several categories."

"There are the ones that are clearly there because somebody did something nobody expected."

"Like, say, the trawling nets followed by the depth charges."

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

 

"Hah! No wonder the merfolk are so twitchy. Nah, that was before my time."

 

"Anyway, sometimes you see an item, . . ."

". . . or a school rule, in general, . . ."

". . . that makes you say 'wow, what on earth happened there?'"

"I don't think we've gotten anything on there yet ourselves . . ."

". . . which, and don't tell Filch this, is not for lack of trying." Students knew they could rely on Hagrid's rivalry with Filch, and exploited this.

"So another type is where somebody like Zonko gets a whole product line banned."

"That one there's a real compliment, you see, it means Filch or Dumbledore knows you by name and respects you as a prankster, and that anybody caught with anything you made can only be up to no good."

"That's where we want to be some day, if we ever open a shop together."

"Don't tell Filch that, either." Hagrid was grinning. He was quite fond of all of the Weasleys, twins included, no matter how much trouble they were. Of course, like Filch, he got to see a lot more of them than other students, because they were always out in the areas he was responsible for, looking for trouble in places no one else would bother to. But they were nice boys, always friendly to him, even when they weren't trying to get out of trouble. Filch's problem was that he was—well, Hagrid had a lot of words for what Filch was, none of them good.

"Now," continued one of the twins, "some of the things on the list are completely reasonable—you know, things you'd normally put on a list of banned items if you were starting from scratch."

"Dark artifacts, and the like."

"There are an awful lot of those."

"It's like an advanced course in defense, just reading it. Wizards can be unbelievably nasty sometimes!"

"I mean, certainly, we prank people, but never anything truly dangerous."

"Just really embarrassing, or uncomfortable."

"But funny. But anyway those make sense."

"But the other kind of item, on that list, is the genuine mystery item, . . ."

". . . where not even Filch knows what it is, because it just occurred to somebody one day to ban it, and nobody knows why, . . ."

". . . and we can't even come up with a good story to explain it. You wouldn't happen to know what a French can opener is, would you?"

". . . or why anyone would want to ban one?"

 

"Hah! No idea." He shrugged, which on Hagrid's frame was impressive.

 

"Filch wouldn't say. Just yelled at us for asking."

"Actually, he just yelled at us the whole time we were there reading it."

"But he couldn't chase us away, this time, . . ."

". . . because we weren't doing anything for once!"

"We should just hang around outside his door more often. Make him nervous."

"Intriguing. Let's see if there's any sort of 'no loitering' or 'no irritating Filch' rule. Who knows, all this time he might have been finding some other excuses to blame us . . ."

". . . and never needed to invoke it! Hah."

 

They approached the doors of the Great Hall. "Well, here we are, boys, off t'the staff table fer me. It was a real pleasure talkin' ter yers when ye wasn't gettin' inta trouble fer once. Come down with Charlie an' stop an' see me sometime!" The Weasleys smiled, having distracted Hagrid from the fact that they were, in fact, getting in trouble when he found them.

 

* * *

 

"Can't you two do that another time? If you get detention and it affects the team, I will personally hunt you down and hex you for it."

Fred and George were surreptitiously trying to levitate bits of fruit salad more than one at a time, without success; Oliver Wood was horrified. "Oh, we're not worried about a teacher coming around and bugging us about it."

"If they do, we'll just insist they show us how to do it!"

"The trick is to distract them. Of course, some of them practically do that themselves."

Oliver was exasperated. "Just try not to get caught again, for anything. Same goes for you, Charlie!" he added, jokingly kicking the other Weasley beneath the table.

"Hey! I'm very good at staying out of trouble. I haven't gotten detention since Hagrid last caught me going into the forest my third year."

"What? Surely, Charlie, you didn't just give up? Why, he chases us away from it at least once a week."

"Maybe if you have so much free time, we should schedule more practice sessions. . ."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Nice try, Oliver, but no. Next year, when you're captain and I'm gone, you can drag these two out all you like. Some of us, you know, merely _like_ quidditch, and aren't _maniacally obsessed with it_. Oh, don't take it so hard. We _do_ have other things to do, though."

"What, like sneak into the Forbidden Forest?"

"Oh, come on! It's the best thing about Hogwarts! You can learn way more there in a month, just by watching, than in seven years worth of Care of Magical Creatures classes. Trust me on that."

This gathered a horrified look from Oliver and ones of intense interest from Fred and George.

"See, if you stay on your broom, up in the canopy, and don't go there in broad daylight like my little brothers here, it's way safer than playing quidditch." Fred and George gave each other one of their 'Why didn't we think of that?' looks. "Orrr, you could just watch for when Fred and George make a try, wait a few minutes, and go while Hagrid is distracted chasing after them. Orrr, if for some reason you don't want to risk getting into trouble at all, you could just ask Hagrid to take you.

See that look, Oliver? You might think you see it a lot because Fred and George are idiots who can't come up with obvious things on their own, but you'd be wrong. That look means they just learned something, and will go out and make different mistakes the next time. It means the little gears in their heads are turning, turning, thinking 'how can we exploit this new knowledge to get ourselves another detention with Filch?'"

 

"You know, Fred, I think he's got us there."

"It's like he's known us all our lives or something!"

 

"And _that_ look is just them being silly."

"I can't ever tell the difference," said Oliver.

"Neither can most people at first, which doesn't help them stay out of trouble. They also have a look somewhere in between, where they only pretend that the gears are turning, and they're hoping you can't tell the difference. But that's an advanced technique taught only to Weasleys. Anyway, you asked what's in the Forbidden Forest that you should want to go there . . ."

What followed was one of the best combined ecology and Defense lectures ever given at Hogwarts.

 

* * *

 

Friday, October 5th. Just before midnight.

 

"Are you dressed warm enough? We'll be up high, and the wind is cold." Charlie had brought the twins to the common room, after waiting until the coast was clear, telling them to dress warmly and bring their brooms. "Okay!" With that he summoned his broom into his hand and mounted it. "Well, come on."

"You want us to fly . . ."

". . . in here?"

"Well, you could of course plod along, trying not to make noise with your footsteps, and barely able to outrun Filch. I don't see the point of it, though. Come on, I've seen that look enough today, let's get going!"

And so the twins followed their big brother out the portrait door, down several hallways, and finally out a window, which they left propped open behind them. "Don't worry," Charlie whispered, "I know lots more ways to get back in if Filch locks it. Now, up!"

Charlie led them up past the roof of Gryffindor tower. "I want you to notice several things about this tower. Number one, that's a clay tile roof, and while it's nice and pointed and sheds the snow and rain, it's not very stable, the staff has to repair it by hand, and most importantly a falling tile makes a damn awful noise. So don't land on any of the roofs like it—they are dangerous, and you will make noise and get caught.

Number two! Those gargoyles? All of them bite. They are dangerous, and you will make noise and get caught.

Number three! Sometimes, and this is the most important part, so pay attention: depending on how the tower is configuring itself on the outside that day, sometimes you can see in the girls' dorms!"

"Let me guess, they are dangerous, and _they_ will make noise and we'll get caught?"

"Not necessarily." Charlie grinned. "Gryffindor girls are friendlier than gargoyles.

One of the other towers is always Ravenclaw—probably that one over there. The Ravenclaw girls are much less likely to notice you, but the Gryffindor girls are hotter in their underwear. I usually stick to Gryffindor, but everyone's values are different. Okay, up."

They followed him high above the school—they could see the lake, the forest, the streets of Hogsmeade, fields, hills, and mountains, spreading out before them. "If you were a seeker, you'd be used to this by now. Snitches are little bastards like that. The difference is right now it's not raining, and we can see. Up!"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously! Come on, are you a quidditch player or not?"

It was bitter cold. The wind was whistling in their ears, and Hogwarts was terrifyingly small below them. "Oh, come on, it's just a few thousand feet—no higher than those mountains over there. It's not like you'll get altitude sickness or anything.

Anyway, the Burrow's off in that direction. If you had a map, you could tell which towns those were. From up here you can navigate pretty much without muggles seeing you, even if you don't have some way to make yourself hard to see. Disillusioning is hard, and most wizards never bother with it—they just avoid getting near muggles in the first place." He paused for a minute, just to let the experience sink in.

"I like to come up here at night, sometimes, and just watch the clouds, and the twinkling lights of the towns and the muggles' cars. You know, I think you were surprised to think of brooms as quiet because you've only ever been going at breakneck speed on them—even playing with Ron and Ginny—they'll be on the team some day, I'm sure of it. And the wind can get really noisy at the higher speeds. But this is a broom, not Dad's Ford Anglia—if _you're_ not doing anything to make noise, it isn't either.

I bet you're scared I'll say 'up' again, right?" The twins nodded. "I won't, this time, but I've gone way higher than this. I don't know what the upper limit on a broom is—I think it needs gravity in order to orient itself properly, but other than that your body will give out before it does. Now, let's go take a look at the castle again and then I'll take you to the forest. While a seeker would consider it perfectly normal to drop most of the way and pull out, I won't make you do that. Come on!"

They watched as the lights from the windows got bigger, and the wings and towers differentiated themselves, and they descended. Up above, Hogwarts was still obviously big, but the world outside was infinitely bigger. Now they were back to worrying about things like getting caught peeking in girls' windows.

Charlie led them in a looping path around the towers, then pulled back up and headed towards the forest, diving down in at a spot which, to Fred and George, looked like any other. They had to pick their way gingerly through the upper branches to get to where Charlie was, holding his finger to his lips to get them to stay silent. They landed next to him on a horizontal limb of an old oak, about sixty feet up. Charlie was pointing at something on the ground, some ways away. The twins had no idea what they were looking for, and made various gestures of confusion at him. Charlie sighed, and motioned for them to get back on their brooms and follow him.

They were surprised to find that Charlie was right—brooms were normally silent if you weren't flying like a maniac. Eventually, they were about a hundred feet from a clearing, at which point even Fred and George could identify the small herd of unicorns grazing there. Charlie made another silencing gesture, then one to follow him, and showed them another use of brooms that they had not contemplated.

Charlie simply moved through the canopy at a turtle's pace, not changing his posture at all, creeping closer to the unicorns. Fred and George were amazed to find themselves just outside of the clearing, looking down at six adults and a foal. The moonlight gleamed off of them, making them seem more ghostlike than real. The twins wondered if they'd lose that effect in the sunlight.

After a while, Charlie backed up slowly, turned around, and at a slightly faster pace led them away. "If you don't come in fits and starts like a predator creeping up on them, and you don't change shape like a predator swooping down on them, and you don't make scary noises, they don't care. But they're sensitive—you have to be careful not to drive them off of their food or stress them. Let's see what else we can find." Charlie flew off deeper into the forest, stopping when he realized the twins weren't keeping up.

"I promise, you'll get better at this in no time flat. I think next quidditch practice I am sending you two out in the regular woods, down by the lake or something, with a practice bludger, and tell you to go all the way to the walls and back with it. That would do it."

"And prepare us for the next match we have to play in trees!"

"Yeah, I have never really gotten the hang of it when forests sprout up all of a sudden on the quidditch pitch. Makes me nervous."

"Oh, come on, you're dodging twelve people on brooms, trying not to get in the way of the quaffle or snitch, and _also_ keeping track of two murderous iron balls. The forest is peanuts. Good, you're giving me that look again. Let's go."

Somewhere that felt to the twins like it must be the heart of the forest, they saw Charlie slow down ahead of them and start creeping along. Once they caught up (having learned to do so slowly), Charlie seemed to be pointing towards the moon. The twins shrugged, figuring that it would make sense eventually, and crept along.

They started to hear small scrabbling noises from the trees ahead of them. Charlie, ever so slowly, angled downwards and descended a few feet. The twins realized this placed the moon directly behind the trees, so that they could see them in silhouette. Small figures were climbing along the branches, stopping every so often to poke around at something. "Bowtruckles," whispered Charlie, pointing out several more that Fred and George had missed, and a few more that they couldn't make out even with Charlie pointing at them. "They're picking wood lice off the trees—it's a symbiotic relationship. The tree gives it a food source—the wood lice and such—and place to live, and the bowtruckle keeps it relatively free of parasites and drives away whatever dangerous creatures it can."

"Like what?"

"Us. They prefer trees that can be used for wand-wood, which unfortunately means wizards go around hunting for bowtruckles. But the Forbidden Forest is so thick with them that they can't all have wandwood-quality magical trees. I asked Hagrid if he thought they were overpopulated, but he thinks they're at sustainable numbers for such a mature forest—you don't usually get expanses of woods like this in Britain—they were all logged more recently. Um, Hagrid didn't say it that way, of course, but you'll find he knows an awful lot if you learn how to get it out of him. I'm getting tired—let's get on back to the school."

 

* * *

 

They did, in fact, get back to their dorms without incident—brooms really were faster and quieter than skulking about on foot. They had broken more rules in the past two hours than they had all year, and Charlie had led them around without any fear of getting caught. They were in awe. "Well, I didn't want to teach you all this your first year," he explained, "when we'd all get in way more trouble if we were caught. Also it's good to learn stuff on your own, and get good at a few things at a time. Mostly, though, I just didn't think of it. I mean, it's not like Percy was ever interested in anything I did."

Fred and George almost laughed, but Charlie had sounded genuinely unhappy when he brought up Percy.

"Uh, thanks, Charlie."

"That was amazing."

"And don't let Percy get to you—he's a git."

 

"Yeah, I know. He's still our brother, though, and I'd like to be able to share stuff with him. I'll be gone next year. So, it'll be up to you two to do this for Ron and Ginny."

"Ohhh." They said, realizing they had just had responsibility thrust upon them.

"Did Bill show you around like this, too?"

"No," said Charlie, "he wasn't interested in the forest much. Bill taught me to cast wards. And break them." With that, he turned around, yawned, and started for bed. "Good night, you guys!"


	18. Following a Few Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonks thinks, and has a conversation with the Slytherins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 18: Following a Few Threads

 

Saturday, October 6, 1990

 

Nothing Tonks had heard suggested anyone had acted to help Sirius. Some Gryffindors had said McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Flitwick had gone into the dorm and searched the Weasleys' things, but that was all she knew. She had to assume Pettigrew was in captivity.

If he had been turned over to the Ministry, she was pretty sure Fudge would use the opportunity to give a speech and get his photo in the paper, and that hadn't happened. She wondered if maybe Pettigrew had gotten injured somehow. That could be bad. She didn't think Dumbledore would let him escape—not after the warning she gave. He _had_ gone straight to McGonagall like she had asked him to, which was a good sign. All in all, her top two theories were that either Dumbledore had some incomprehensibly complicated plot he was working on, or else had simply not made up his mind what to do with the rat now that he had him.

That kind of caution was all well and good, but she was increasingly unhappy about how long it was taking to free Sirius. He should have been a high priority for her, but he was still stuck in Azkaban. She was certain that Dumbledore knew by now that Sirius was innocent, so further pressure on the headmaster was probably futile.

Dumbledore consistently tried to do right, and Tonks had great respect for the man, but she was feeling more and more justified in stepping in when she thought he was wrong. In this case, she felt he needed a check on his tendency to lose track of the individual people on his 'team'. Tonks tried not to be like him, thinking of people as pieces on a chessboard, but she had to admit that getting Sirius out would be extremely helpful to her. She needed someone trustworthy who would go along with her schemes. Tonks decided it was time to send a letter or two. Unfortunately, after sending them, it would take a while to find out whether they worked.

More frustrating still than her inability to free Sirius was her inability to come up with excuses to contact Remus. Mrs. Longbottom had smply smiled and nodded, and then gone her own way, when hiring a tutor, and Tonks was reluctant to risk messing with the timeline so much as to ask Dumbledore to hire him for the Dark Arts job a little early.

So far as she knew, Quirrel was currently off in Albania or wherever, infecting the back of his head with Voldemort's spirit. She had never had it explained to her how that worked. In any case it seemed silly not to do everything possible to get Quirrel back in Hogwarts where everyone could keep an eye on him. It wasn't like he had shown any propensity to blow his cover until the last possible moment. Maybe the promise of the stone kept him in line, and acted as bait?

Tonks wasn't sure how much of the 91-92 school year had been scripted by Dumbledore, or, if it had, what on earth he had been thinking. It certainly had the halmarks of a Dumbledore plot. Unfortunately whatever it was had been so convoluted as to make her nervous about changing too many elements of it.

One of her best guesses was that Dumbledore had wanted to let Harry go up against a weakened version of Voldemort. Once, after an order meeting during the original timeline, Charlie had told her about his reserve trying to take a dragon that had been raised in captivity for too long, and having to give it weakened prey so that it could learn to hunt and eat for itself. Probably Dumbledore didn't want Harry to kill and eat the dark lord, but basically it was the same idea.

In any case there was only so much she could do to help, since, assuming she didn't utterly screw up her N.E.W.T.s or something, she would be off at the auror academy next year. She wasn't sure how she would be able to help out Harry while he wasn't at school. "Of course, I'm sitting here in a pile of his mail, secretly reading it all before he does." She would really like to just stuff it all in trunks and hand them off to Harry once she was back from school; she wondered if she could find some cheap muggle trunks over Christmas break and shrink them. "Ugh. I'd need, like, twenty of them. Maybe if I sorted out all the junk mail . . ."

She had been doing a pretty enthusiastic job of sorting out the really interesting letters, and now knew about the childhood fantasies of quite a few of her classmates. She worried about invading their, and Harry's, privacy, but not enough to actually stop reading the mail. She wondered what on earth Dumbledore had shielded the poor kid from as he got older, and the mail undoubtedly got racier. If she had been younger, and had a few more years at Hogwarts ahead of her, she would have been tempted to make a deal with Harry where she would steal his mail for him, and neither would tell Dumbledore, just so she could catch the good stuff before it got to him.

"It's not like I'm one of those Slytherin girls who get off on the idea of molesting Harry themselves, right? I'm just reading his mail. Huh." She made a mental note to ask Mrs. Longbottom to send the boys off to school with a case of love potion antidotes. Maybe she could be there for that conversation.

Tonks had taken to spending a lot of her free time here in what she now thought of as "Harry's Mail Room". She had a much easier time with her homework than her classmates, having already done it once, so it wasn't really affecting her grades. She had already read everything in the Hogwarts library about time travel, which wasn't very much; going to the British Library had felt like walking into a trap to her, so she had never followed up on that. Maybe it was just as well that she was too scared to check anything out that might make Madam Pince suspicious, since she would probably just take it up here to the Mail Room to read, instead of spending time with her friends.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, at dinner (Tonks had gotten better about not missing meals), she watched Nancy turn a little green at the sight of a roast chicken. "So how is the pigeon project going?"

"Well, I mean, I haven't had to ask you to knock me out again, so that's progress."

"Okay, so you're not on the verge of a panic attack or of puking. Awesome!"

"Hmph. Yesterday was the last day of the extispicy lesson, so unless she comes up with something to top that, it should all be downhill from here. I don't think I'm going to be able to eat chicken again for a long time, though."

"Yeah, I don't think I'd be able to either." Tonks wasn't so sure this was true; she had become fairly inured to blood and gore during her original timeline. But maybe she wouldn't have to be, this time around.

"Giving somebody potions to help them do something like that? If _I_ ever became a dark lord, I would use that technique. It's, like, Death-Eater-level thinking, and I bet Trelawney has no idea. She says her grandmother taught her to read the entrails of all the birds of Britain, and everyone seems to believe her."

"Yeah, it sounds like it was a normal classroom activity not so long ago. Well, long ago for us. Dumbledore probably had to do it when he was our age. He probably never batted an eye when he heard about it, either—that is, I guess, assuming he found out."

"I bet Snape knew exactly what he was doing, though, brewing those potions."

"I bet he wishes _he_ thought of it first. The way you described the effects, it sounded way more disturbing than any of the stuff he's made us cut up. He's probably bitter!"

"Yeah, you're right! I wish I could have been there for that conversation between them. I mean, it was a lot of work he went to brewing all that, and he had to have had a lot of lead time."

Tonks stopped, looking like she was trying not to laugh. "I just had a horrifying thought."

"What?"

"If we were Slytherins, imagining the conversation . . ."

Nancy looked confused.

"Okay, remember during that food fight the other day?"

"Yeah . . . oh! You told me about that. I wish I had been there for that."

"Are you sure? It was pretty unsettling."

"You watched."

"True. Anyway, they would totally have decided Snape only did it in exchange for sexual favors."

"He's their head of house, though, don't they respect him enough not to be that crass?"

"Oh, I don't think they would think of it as being crass. They'd just go right ahead and do it without worrying about whether it was a good idea."

"You make them sound like Gryffindors."

Laughter broke out behind them, and a familiar voice said "Hey, you're that metamorphmagus, aren't you?"

Tonks turned around to see Sandra eyeing her curiously. "Yeah . . ." She screwed up her face, turning the pink streaks in her hair into blue.

Sandra was in awe. "Wow. So we're here using glamors, but when you've got the boys in the broom closet, you can be whoever you want. I mean, whoever they want, or, or, you could pretend to be their girlfriends, and they'd never know." Tonks was blushing; controlling that took even more will than changing her hair, so there wasn't much she could do. "Can you . . . can you do guys, too?" Tonks nodded. "And does it, you know, work?" Tonks just started blushing more. Before she could say anything, Sandra cut in. "It _does_. Oh, that is _so_ unfair. And you probably never misuse it either."

Rissa had turned around. "Okay, she's really blushing now, Sandra, I think she _does_. It's Tonks, right? Hi, I'm Rissa."

Sandra kept going. "I bet you're so good you never get caught. Every time anybody in this school is getting it on with anyone else, it might be you."

"And," added Rissa, "you can change one part at a time, right?"

Tonks nodded, blushing. She wanted to pretend to be horrified, and to tell the Slytherins to bugger off, but it was rare for them to be this nice, or almost nice, and she was enjoying the attention. "I actually haven't misused it that way—I mean, I've disguised myself to stay out of trouble sometimes, but not the kind of misuse you have in mind, aside from minor tweaks, like adjusting my breasts to fit whatever I'm wearing."

The two Slytherins were now staring at her breasts. "Ohhh," said Sandra, "could you show us?"

Tonks wasn't expecting that. Quietly, she replied "maybe, if you're nice, but unlike you I wouldn't do it in the Great Hall."

Both of them snorted. "Fair enough," said Rissa.

Sandra gave a sidelong glance down the table. "You know, that would be like, Angie's wet dream, being able to turn into anyone she wanted. That was the girl who was pretending to be Rita—I saw you watching that." Tonks nodded. "She wouldn't talk to any of us about it afterwards—"

"That's because you teased her!"

"Okay, maybe. But I think she'd do that kind of thing again in a heartbeat, and if she had your powers, she'd never go to class ever, she'd be off in the broom closet pretending to be Dumbledore or something."

"Ew, Sandra!" Rissa made a face.

"That is, assuming she could talk anyone into doing it with her."

Becky, sitting on the far side of the table, interrupted. "Sandra, you really shouldn't be talking about her behind her back."

"Oh, come on, it's not doing her any harm. And if she heard about what Tonks could do, she'd just cry and cry and cry out of frustration."

"Oh come on," protested Rissa, "I think she can get herself off without pretending to be Skeeter or something."

"I'm not so sure. And that's something you're born with, right, you can't just take a potion and do it, like becoming an animagus. Right?"

"Er, you can't become a metamorphmagus like that, no, you're born with that. I'm not sure it's that big a deal, though, if you have time and aren't working as an auror or something—unless you want to change all the parts separately, you can just use polyjuice."

Sandra and Rissa gave each other a look Tonks had only previously seen on the Weasley twins, and immediately rethought the wisdom of mentioning polyjuice. Tonks cringed, then realized that the girls probably only wanted to use it for sex (or, she mentally corrected herself, simulated sex) not breaking into Gringotts or something, and that she should probably relax.

Sandra raised her eyebrows. "Please tell?"

"Well, you'll just go look it up yourselves as soon as you can get to the library, so I might as well tell you . . . just _try_ to use it responsibly. Okay. So, polyjuice. In a nutshell, it takes like a month to brew, and then you add a bit of the person you're changing into—like a hair—into the dose you're taking, and you will turn into them—detail for detail—for an hour. You can keep taking it to extend the effect . . . uh, what else, the ingredients are expensive and you won't have them lying around. I don't know why I'm saying this to you, but please don't go breaking into Snape's storeroom to get them."

"Okay," said Sandra, "I'm going to finish eating really, really fast now, and then run to the library. But don't think we've forgotten about your breasts."

After Sandra had turned around, Rissa tried to reassued Tonks. "You look like you just did something awful—don't worry so much. This will probably help keep Sandra _out_ of trouble. Relatively speaking of course."


	19. Slytherin Problem-Solving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further exploration of how Slytherins think, plus a bit at the Gryffindor table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Monday, October 8, 1990

 

"Well, Rissa doesn't seem too bothered by the idea of love potions—maybe we should dose her with one." Bernard and Erwin were in the common room, trying to come up with pranks "good" enough not to make Oren cringe.

"Why would you do that? If you were proposing to make somebody lust after, say, Fred and George, you should make it somebody they know, so maybe they'll get suspected of doing it themselves. And the Weasleys are a bit too harsh to do to another Slytherin."

"What if we dosed _them_ to go after Rissa instead?" suggested Erwin.

"That's better," said Oren, "and avoids the problem of trying to get someone to fall for twins simultaneously. If you went for only one, it wouldn't be as funny, and the other would catch on instantaneously."

"Heh," Bernard laughed, "what do you suppose she'd do with them?"

"What, the twins? I have no idea. Don't some people have a thing for twins? Maybe she'd be happy about it. I don't think we can do the thing where we figure out who in our house fancies somebody from another one, and then set them up, because mostly that doesn't seem to happen. We kind of keep to ourselves so far as I can tell. Or else people are good at hiding things."

"So how would you get them to drink the potion?" asked Erwin.

"I don't know. The house elves control the food on the tables at meals, so if it's in food or drink it has to happen elsewhere. I don't know what color they all might be, although I seem to remember amortentia is a swirly opaque thing. So you couldn't put in butterbeer or something. Lace chocolate frogs with them?"

"How do you make sure the twins eat them, and not someone else?"

"Yeah, targeting is really hard. It would be nice if you could make it so that it only affects the target. Hm." Oren looked thoughtful.

"What?"

"Well, my understanding is that potions are better at letting you set a particular person somebody will go for, but anybody who drinks it gets the effect. And charms are better for making sure only the right person triggers it, so you could, say, make a chair that made a person horny when they sat in it, and I think you could only have it trigger for somebody you specify, but you can't use that to make them horny for the Weasley twins specifically."

Bernard and Erwin looked impressed. "Seriously?"

"Sure, generic effects like that are easy, especially if you don't mess around with the triggering business."

"So could we do that on, say, the chairs in this room? Like, ourselves?"

"Sure, I guess, I think I know how, but why?"

Erwin looked exasperated. "Oren, you're smart and all, but sometimes you're really dense. I have no idea how you ended up with a girl in your lap the other day."

"Probably because it seemed funnier to do it to me."

"Yeah. Yeah, that actually makes sense. Anyway, if you make girls horny, you have a better chance of getting some."

"Couldn't they just run off like Angie did the other day?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Could you at least try?"

"It seems like it would just annoy people."

Erwin wasn't going to give up that easily. "You wouldn't have to tell them. Can you make it so the effect isn't very strong, so they won't notice?"

Oren looked upwards, like he was working something out in his head. "Yes. I still don't see the point, though."

"Well, would it be hard to undo, if it goes badly?"

"That depends . . . I'd have to do it with runes—I learned a lot of runic stuff because you don't have to be very powerful to use it, and the Ministry's trace doesn't care about it. So if I just drew in chalk, that would be fine." Oren got down on the floor and looked at the underside of the chair he was in. "This has the upholstery on the bottom, too. Let's see . . ."

He pulled a piece of white chalk out of his pocket. "What," asked Bernard, "you carry chalk around all the time, just in case?"

"Yeah—it's enchanted so the dust doesn't get on anything but what you're writing on."

"Wait," asked Erwin, "how does that work?"

"It's basically just a very specific charm that you are casting through the chalk or stylus or whatever you've got, as you write it, instead of a wand. Some people, me included, like calling it runic magic because that sounds cool, but Flitwick would probably say it's just a charm. So, yeah, you still have to learn each rune or glyph."

"Huh."

"Anyway, this chalk doesn't write well enough on this upholstery. Maybe a piece of paper with a sticking charm? You know, everyone's going to figure out I did it eventually. I don't like this plan."

"I can't do a sticking charm yet, but would spell-o-tape work? Then you could just make the piece of paper and give it to me, and I'd take the blame if we got caught."

"Wow, Erwin, you're really set on this. But, yeah, that sounds okay. Do you have tape?"

"Yeah, in our room." Bernard and Erwin shared a double.

"Okay, let's go get this over with. And don't tell me where you put it, just leave it off the chairs we usually sit in. I don't want to have to worry about it or get involved. I'll get in enough trouble if anybody figures out I helped."

Half an hour later, Bernard and Erwin were looking at a stack of papers, each bearing a surprisingly complicated drawing. They had accepted Oren's (basically truthful) explanation that he had spent much of his childhood in his family's library when they were off playing quidditch.

"Okay, fine, you have your toys. I don't see how you're any closer to getting the Weasleys, though."

"Uh, could we go into the Great Hall when it was empty, and stick these under the benches on the Gryffindor table?"

"Because you want the Gryffindors to have more sex than you?"

"No! Damn it, Oren, stop being a moron. It would just be funny to watch them squirm."

Oren sighed. "And you promise not to tell me how, if, or when you do it?"

"Sure."

"Okay. You don't want to use those in the Great Hall, though—they're both too subtle and not subtle enough."

"What does that mean?" asked Bernard.

"Well, you want the effect to be powerful when it's on, but not so noticeable that anybody thinks to look under the table. I'll think about how to do that. Just don't use the ones I gave you for the Great Hall, okay?"

"This is one of those things where you don't want your name on a prank that you think is dumb, right?"

"Exactly."

"So what else can you do this way?"

"Uh, I'd have to think about that. Off the top of my head, I know how to make them want to eat their vegetables—just don't ask about that one—but it should be pretty versatile. You know, this is turning out to be a better plan than I expected . . ."

"Hah. You didn't think we could come up with one." They both looked pleased with themselves.

"No, I had no idea if you could. Actually, how much _can_ you do with Spello-tape, anyway? Like, how much weight can it hold up? How long does it last? Could I do this on something other than paper?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know yet. Huh. Maybe I should do the installation myself, after all. Just let me think about this for a while. Like, a few days."

Bernard laughed. "Heh. If he's going to actually take whole days for it, it ought to be really good."

"Thanks. There's a difference between actual design work and ordinary impulse control, though—I don't want to run off and make whatever we're putting under the table, and then the next day think of something awesome I wish I had added to it."

 

* * *

 

Oliver Wood wasn't sure whether he was becoming convinced the Weasleys wouldn't get in trouble for playing with their food, or whether he had spent so long being mortified by them that he had run out of the ability to get upset anymore. Right now they were all at dinner, and George was hovering an apple above the table while Fred made three peas orbit around it. "I can't believe Flitwick taught you that. What was he thinking?"

  


"He was thinking that 'wingardium leviosa' was an ordinary part of the Charms curriculum . . ."

". . . and was pleased to have students—any students—come see him in his office for extra help."

  


"Personally," added Charlie, "I think he was curious what it was like to be a faculty member talking to Fred and George when they _weren't_ in trouble."

  


"Oh, that's unfair!"

"We convince Hagrid we aren't in trouble all the time."

  


"That so does not count."

"Argh!" said Oliver, "Charlie, just because you're their big brother doesn't mean you can just let them do whatever they want. What if they really got in trouble?"

"They don't seem to get themselves in major trouble, and anyway I've been tiring them out with those exercises in the forest." The twins groaned. "Besides, nobody ever gets hurt. Sure, they're a steady drain on house points, but remember, that doesn't count towards the Quidditch Cup."

"Oh, right!" said Oliver, looking a little brighter. "Not that we have any chance this year."

"Well, I'd like to at least get second by a respectable margin, even if we can't beat Slytherin."

"Don't say that! There's always a way! But it doesn't help that somebody always buys them the newest brooms."

"Yeah. Why doesn't Gryffindor have any rich alumni?"

  


"Ah, that doesn't seem right, though. Just because no one buys us new brooms . . ."

" . . . doesn't mean nobody _could_ . . .

". . . and it's not like we've tried asking. _Have_ we tried asking?"

  


"Well," said Charlie, "McGonagall ought to know. I'll see if I can catch her in her office alone. It's worth a try."

"Thanks, Charlie!"

"Now, I don't want to get your hopes up. McGonagall isn't the most warm and outgoing of people, and probably hasn't kept in touch with students. I bet Sprout could get new brooms for the Hufflepuff team in no time if she were conniving enough to think of it. But we might as well try."

  


"That's right, Oliver, you never can tell what you can do until you try!"

"George's right, of course," said George, pointing to his twin. "For instance, if he hadn't tried, we wouldn't know he could hover five peas at a time."

"And if Fred hadn't tried," said Fred, "we wouldn't know that you could levitate a lump of chocolate pudding without the bowl."

"Yes! Of course, it's kind of messy. Want some?" He levitated it, steadily dripping, in front of Oliver, who leaned backwards to get away from it. "Don't worry—I won't drop it in _your_ lap."

"Percy, now, we'd totally go for . . ."

". . . if he didn't strategically sit as far away from us as possible."

  


Oliver cringed, unwittingly reinforcing everything he was trying to stop.

 

* * *

 

Thursday, October 11, 1990. Evening.

Oren was in his usual seat at the back of the library. In a few minutes Madam Pince would start shooing everyone out and closing up. He had long since finished his homework, and was sketching increasingly elaborate plans for the Gryffindor benches.

Rissa and Sandra had been in here off and on for the past few days, hanging around the potions section and looking increasingly frustrated. They hadn't noticed him, so far as he could tell, because he was small and kept his head down in his work.

"The library will be closing in five minutes!" shouted Madam Pince. The girls began dejectedly to reshelve the two dozen or so books they had accumulated on the table. Oren was able to pack up his things relatively quickly, and walked up to them.

He arrived as Rissa was coming out of the stacks. She jumped. "Oren! You startled me. Were you sneaking up on us?"

"No—it's a library. Some people try to be quiet in them." Rissa stuck out her tongue.

Sandra returned from reshelving her last armload, and the three started back to the dorms. "So what were you up to back there?" Oren asked.

"Trying to find the recipe for polyjuice," answered Sandra, "so that we don't have to just use glamors the next time Angie and you or whoever decide to get it on in public."

Oren had no idea what to say. Rissa correctly took this as embarrassment. "Oh, come on, it's not like we'd be forcing it down your throat or anything. It would just be nice to have around, just in case."

Oren tried to pretend he wasn't involved in this. "Let me guess—you can't find the recipe."

"Yeah. We've been looking for days."

"You realize it's almost certainly in the Restricted Section, don't you?"

"Why?" asked Sandra, sounding genuinely baffled. "It's not like it's the Dark Arts or anything."

"Well, impersonating people is really useful if you want to say, break into Gringott's or the Ministry or something."

"Oh, come onnn. So criminals use it, so we can't have it either. Next they'll ban the hover charm because you can use to throw rocks as well as sausages."

"Sandra, honestly, some people are interested in things other than sex. It does kind of suck for us, though. . . I hadn't really thought of it as a seriously dark potion, either."

Oren realized that he was at a minor crossroads. He knew of several books back home that contained the recipe for polyjuice. The girls' families probably hadn't accumulated as many books as the Waylands had, so it might make a difference whether he helped out here.

One option was to ask his little sister, Sarepta, to go to one of the books, copy down the recipe, and send it to him. But she was a few years younger than him, and he wasn't sure how accurate she would be. He discarded that plan as unsafe.

The other was just to ask his father directly. Oren could imagine how that would go—his father would probably be so thrilled by the request that he'd go down to Knockturn Alley and buy Oren several cases of the stuff, then insist on handing it off to one of the girls on the next Hogsmeade weekend. He'd probably throw in a case of contraceptive potions and an embarrassing lecture, too, and then over Christmas break he'd make both Oren and his sister hear all about his teenage escapades with polyjuice.

No, he wasn't comfortable with the idea of his father handing Angie, or worse, Sandra, a case of polyjuice. Oren was inexperienced, yes, but he was certainly creative enough to come up with an endless stream of possibilities. Assuming Angie was still interested, obtaining an easy supply of polyjuice could easily be a point of no return—a temptation none of them would manage to resist. No.

It wasn't even concern about mucking up the timeline—he was happy to do that. He just didn't want to risk having his formative sexual experiences happen while he was in somebody else's body. There were too many ways for that to go horribly wrong. The fact that due to the time travel, he already _was_ in a different body—that just confused the issue further.

"I guess you could go ask Professor Snape to let you into the Restricted Section, but he's going to know what you're up to, and if the ingredients turn out to be expensive or hard to get he's not going to want you coming back to him, or have you tempted to nick them."

"How would he know what we're up to?"

"You know he's a legilimens, right?"

"What's that?"

"He can read minds. Uh, it means he's good at the spell for that. You can learn to block it. Both are hard. I think he mostly uses it to keep the Gryffindors from throwing stuff at him or deliberately blowing anything up—I don't think he'd tell Dumbledore about anything you were up to unless you were planning to kill somebody."

"Wait—does he do that to everybody?"

"I don't know? I've never heard of him acting on anything he learned from doing it to Slytherins, though, so unless you are planning to do something to him in particular, you're probably safe."

"I guess that's okay, then," said Rissa, "but now we're kind of out of options to get the recipe."

"Actually, I just realized, I guess I should warn you. My father says that while Snape's okay, Dumbledore is also a legilimens, and he's not as scrupulous about how he uses the information."

"What?"

"Creepy old bastard!"

"Yeah. Like I said, if you really care, you can learn to block it—that's called occlumency, and I'd assume there are books on it in the library. But the way Dumbledore does it, it's harder for him if you don't make eye contact with him. My father says he makes his eyes twinkle or something to try to distract you when he does it."

"Ew. So he just goes around, snooping on everyone's sex lives?"

"Sandra . . ." warned Rissa.

"Right, right, I'm secretly the next dark lord and he has to know what I get off on at night in order to save the world from me."

"Actually, I think Sandra's right this time. We don't know what all Dumbledore is up to—remember, this is a guy who got himself custody of a one-year-old kid just so he could leave him with a bunch of abusive muggles. He's not a nice person."

Now the girls just looked depressed. Great. And he really ought to make sure Erwin and Bernard knew about the legilimency thing, too.

"Well, that was a cheery thought. So Oren . . . Rissa and I overheard that Hufflepuff girl—Tonks, I think her name was—talking about that business with Trelawney and the pigeons. Did you hear about that?"

"Sort of?" He had actually been paying attention to stories about Trelawney, just in case.

"You heard what she did with the potions, right?"

"What potions? All I know is she taught some classes on entrail reading."

"Oh, it's better than that. She didn't want the students freaking out, so she made them drink calming draughts and stuff that keeps you from vomiting."

"Wow. That's . . . I wonder what that was like."

"Yeah. Anyway, she got Snape to brew all the potions for her, and she spent two weeks on it, so that was a lot of work for him."

Rissa chimed in. "So the Hufflepuffs were saying if they were Slytherins, they'd act out that scene."

"It was so cute! It's like they can be taught. And Tonks is a metamorphmagus, too—I don't think it ever occurred to her that she could just make herself look like Snape or Trelawney then and there and just go with it."

"Okay, I'm confused. Angie said you guys hadn't done that sort of thing before. . ."

They were now standing outside of the Slytherin dorms. "Well, we hadn't, but that was way too awesome not to do again." Sandra switched to a teasing voice. "Soooo, what's up with you and Angie, anyway? Neither of you has said anything to us since."

"Uh, I wasn't avoiding you or anything, I'm just shy."

Sandra snorted. "Yeah, you were real shy about dry-humping Angie in public."

"Er, look, could we not talk about this so loudly?"

"Sorry. It doesn't look like Angie's around, though—come onnn . . . you don't look traumatized, so whatever happened must have been okay. Come sit with us over here?"

Oren looked uncomfortable, knowing that Erwin and Bernard had probably finished installing his enchantments. He wasn't sure he wanted to test his own handiwork right now.

Sandra saw his hesitation. "Okay, okay . . . we could all go back to your room and you could tell us there . . . I promise we won't molest you!"

Oren managed what he hoped was an unreadable smile. "Hah! No, I'm not worried about that. I don't know what I'm allowed to say, though. Angie hasn't said anything to me since last week, either."

"Seriously? Sandra, what _did_ you say to her?"

"I just . . . I teased her about what she had been doing with Oren, in his room."

"No, what exactly did you say?"

"You guys, I really wish you'd keep your voices down. Uh, I guess you can come back to my room if you want, but I kind of don't want to stay here and watch you talk about this in public."

"Okay, alright. Come on, Sandra, you're not getting out of this."

 

* * *

 

Several minutes later, they were sitting in Oren's room, Rissa and Oren on his bed, Sandra in the chair. His face was beet red.

"Oh come onnn, I know it was kind of overdone, but Angie knows I was just making stuff up. I say stuff like that around her all the time. I don't see what the big deal is."

"Hm. Oren, did Angie actually do anything like what Sandra teased her about? I mean, that you could tell?"

"Hey, he wouldn't know, if she never said anything outright and couldn't get him to go along with anything."

"Uh, not really? She never said anything like that stuff. I have no idea what she was thinking. She looked kind of disturbed when she left, and said she was tired, but I had kind of gone overboard teasing her too."

"No way! Seriously? So maybe it wasn't me after all? What did you say?"

"It was actually kind of similar to what you said, except not quite so . . . psychologically nuanced. I was trying to get her to stop worrying, so I just came up with more and more ridiculous stuff, like saying you were out in the hall with a camera, waiting to hear me screaming. And my version kind of ended with Voldemort and Grindelwald rising again and teaming up, and it all being her fault."

Sandra was nearly speechless with laughter. "That . . . is . . . is priceless. So awesome. I can't believe you did that."

"She looked so worried! I didn't know what else to do!"

"But then she came back to my room and I pulled it on her again."

"But even if both of you teased her like that, Oren's version sounds a lot less nasty and pointed. Oren, did she seem upset with you after that?"

"Not openly, at least, no—I asked her if we were okay, and she said yes. She at least didn't look mad at me. I was wondering if it secretly unsettled her, though—it was like she looked a lot more sober or something afterwards?"

"Huh. Sandra, you don't suppose she actually came in here planning to seduce Oren, do you?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Er, Oren, you know that Angie could have gotten in trouble if she did that, right?"

"Yeah. At first I thought she came in to get me to promise not to tell on her, so I did that right away, and we just talked after that. But Angie said Slytherins didn't care about that sort of thing, and that even Becky was just faking it."

"Becky _is_ faking it. You can tell because she slips up sometimes. Remember, she tried to act all moral at first, but she was totally getting into it when she was watching you!"

Rissa was searching for words. "I guess . . . mostly we _don't_ care. And you're, what, three years apart anyway? For all I know it would have been fine. It's just . . . Angie worries a lot, and she doesn't have any experience with boys."

"Hey, I don't either, but that doesn't stop me!"

"Sandra, you're special. But what I'm saying is that just because Slytherins, so long as you keep it in the house and it looks more or less consensual, will just leave each other alone—aside from teasing, of course. Just because of that doesn't mean she doesn't think a little like the outside world, or I guess remember what it thinks? I mean, there _is_ kind of a big gap between you—it's not just three years."

Oren was briefly worried—was his cover blown?—before Sandra jumped in. "She means you don't look like you're very developed yet. You aren't, right? Going through puberty? Crotch hair, dick getting bigger, voice cracking?" Oren shook his head.

"Sandra! Argh, you make me feel like Becky. Damn you. Sorry about that, but yeah, Slytherins might tease each other, but nobody's going to stop you or anything."

"So you can go ahead and fuck Angie if you want."

"Damn it, Sandra! No wonder Angie won't speak to you. Okay, at least Oren thinks you're funny. Maybe I should leave you two together— _after_ we're done talking. So anyway, at this point I'm going with a partial version of Sandra's theory—Angie was still turned on from breakfast and wasn't really thinking about age, since you had done such a good acting job—you did, by the way—and then once she got in here, realized how weird it all was, and started worrying what other people would think. Then she freaked, and then both of you laid it on thick in quick succession. Honestly, I think you both owe her an apology."

Oren realized he had just gotten a master class in how Slytherins handled internal conflict, or, at least, how the smarter ones did it. No one had talked to him about anything like this before. The house, on a social level, really _did_ do things its own way, and you kind of had to understand it in order to make it work for you. "I can go find her in the Hall tomorrow," he said, "but I'm not sure what to say. I mean, she said we were okay, and she wasn't upset with me, so I can apologize, but I doubt I'll be able to tell if it made any difference."

"Yeah, that sounds about right. Except with me, I don't think she wants to talk to me. If she's awake when I get back to the room, I'll give it a try."

"Okay. Hm. Oren, you know this isn't a problem we have a lot around here, right? The other houses like to tell themselves stories about pureblood arranged marriages and so on, but that kind of thing hasn't happened in centuries. The stuff the Gryffindors make up about us is way kinkier than most of what actually happens."

"I know, it sucks, sorry to disappoint you!" Sandra grinned. "But some of us at least try to keep them wondering if maybe there's something to the rumors. Good job on that count, by the way."

"Riight." Rissa shook her head, and stood up. "Have to keep up appearances. I don't know. I think my work here is done. You two have fun." She gave them one last look, and slipped out the door, closing it again behind her.

"You know," said Sandra, "I think she was trying to scare the crap out of one of us by leaving like that, but I'm not sure who. I wonder, are you scared of me?" She put her fingers together and peered over them, trying to look predatory, but mostly looking terrifyingly gleeful.

"Uh, yes, but mostly because of that expression."

"Hah. Anyway, Rissa thinks I'm all talk, and can only keep that up because I avoid opportunities."

"Are you?"

"What, you too? Are you coming on to me?"

"No! I wasn't saying something was wrong with you. I just meant that conversationally, because it seemed like a reasonable thing to ask. It sounded okay in my head."

"Oh, yeah, that happens to me sometimes. But usually stuff starts out sounding pretty bad in my head, too, before I say it." She grinned, slightly less gleefully. "So anyway right now I'm in here because confronting the stuff in my head is less scary than talking to Angie."

The more he got to know people this time around, the more Oren's opinions of Slytherins' intelligence increased. He was grateful for the second chance, if only for this reason. "So, what are the chances that Rissa just set us up?"

"Ohh, you mean, leaving us alone so she can tease us later?" Oren nodded. "She would totally do something like that, if she thought of it, which I'm not sure she did. She looked like she genuinely just wanted to go off to bed. But I wouldn't put it past her to think of it tomorrow and give us grief about it then.

Aw, man, I feel like I ought to be saying something awful to you right now, just to do this right, but I'm kinda out of things to say. I could grope you or something, if you want, just to prove I'm not faking it." She gave Oren a questioning look. As best as Oren could tell, Sandra really did want to maintain her reputation, and had no particular sexual morality—or impulse control—to stop her from following through on things like this. She might not particularly _want_ to do it, but he could tell that if he grinned back at her and turned it into a challenge, she'd go for it. He decided to pass.

"That's okay." He smiled the confident, reassuring smile he gave to clients with embarrassing problems. "I think for the first time anyone gropes me, I'd prefer they had a better reason."

"Suit yourself," she said, on her way out the door. "Maybe if my conversation with Angie goes well, she'll come take care of that!" Oren was pretty sure Sandra was relieved to be off the hook, left to face down her own words another day.


	20. A Letter And Office Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter home, plus conversations with various professors. Includes my first attempt at writing Snape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 20: A Letter And Office Hours

 

Saturday, October 13, 1990

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

To: Malaxis Wayland

 

Dear Father,

Hogwarts is still okay. I think my grades are pretty good. I don't think most kids here grew up with as many books around as I did.

Thanks for warning me about Dumbledore—I've told some other students about him, because they didn't know he was a legilimens. So far I haven't been near him. I've read some of the books on Occlumency that I found in the boxes from Aunt Nerodia's collection, and I've done some of the exercises, but I know theory and practice aren't the same, so I'll stay away from him like you said to. It would be nice if everybody's parents were more careful about this—do you think a summer class on Occlumency would work?

The other Slytherins are actually pretty smart, if they are motivated in the right ways. Sometimes it seems like I know a lot more than the other first-years, though. If Dumbledore or someone else comes asking, you'll tell them how much time I spend reading, right? I don't want him to decide I'm the next Dark Lord just because you let me borrow my great-grandfather's rune-stylus kit!!

I haven't done anything like the pranks you used to yet. Don't tell mother this, but Erwin and Bernard talked me into messing with some chairs—I won't tell you how!—but it turns out you can't use the chalk from that kit on upholstery. Erwin has some Spell-o-tape, though, so I made some sheets of paper he could stick to the undersides of things. If it works, I'll let you know!

Tell mother and Sarepta I'll write to them each again soon!

Love,

Oren

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

 

* * *

 

Professor Snape's office was more or less circular, and was lined with shelves storing all manner of jars and containers. Oren assumed many were for show, some were trophies, some were actually useful, and some were simply things Snape had nowhere else to put. The Professor's desk stood in the center of the room, the soft green glow of his lamp being the only source of light.

Oren had knocked on the door, and been told simply "come in."

"Professor Snape, do you have a few minutes? I have some questions that aren't really related to class."

Snape fixed him with an inscrutable look, but had long since given up probing his Occlumency barriers. It was fairly normal for pureblood children to be given lessons by paranoid parents; Oren was good, but not suspiciously so (he could keep a legilimens out well enough, but not lead them around through false memories).

After a moment, Snape replied "I have more than a few minutes, but feel free to sit down if this will take longer." He waited for Oren to sit down on one of the chairs Snape kept for visitors. "Go ahead."

"I heard some Seventh-Years saying you brewed some potions for Professor Trelawney, and that the potions made it so they would do things they ordinarily wouldn't—cutting open the pigeons and whatever else the class involved. But they said it was just an ordinary calming draught and an anti-emetic. I looked in the library a bit about this, and I couldn't find anything about effects of calming draughts on moral judgments. How does it actually work?"

Snape appeared to be collecting his thoughts, and then began his lecture.

"I suspect, Mr. Wayland, that you lack empathy for the subjective experiences of those whose minds lack organization. You would do well to gain some. I think you would find it useful.

Someone who is not truly aware of the workings of their own mind cannot develop the ability to observe themselves thinking. They do not pay attention to what it is like to think, and therefore do not know when they are, or are not, thinking.

I will not attempt to define moral judgment for you because I do not think it is a useful concept. Suffice it to say that most people have sufficiently disorganized minds that they cannot directly observe their own judgments, of any sort, and therefore are unaware that they never make any. Instead they look to emotions, not understanding that emotions are mere epiphenomena of their confused mental existences.

Consider the fight-or-flight response. Just thinking about danger can cause the heart to race, which is not inherently bad, because this response might be necessary to prepare the body to act. A calming draught mutes the link between mind and body, so that thoughts do not lead to physical symptoms. That is why it is used when someone is thinking irrationally.

I added the anti-emetic to the general calming draught as an extra precaution. It alone might have changed the behaviors of some, who are used to observing the physical sensations of their stomachs, taking these to be evidence that something must be disgusting to them, and deducing then that a contemplated activity must violate their personal ethics. This nausea-based evaluation is the pernicious cognitive pathway I most expected Professor Trelawney's students to engage in."

"Wow. Thank you. . . that explains an awful lot. Huh. So, if you don't mind my asking, how much of that did Professor Trelawney come up with on her own?"

"The basic idea was hers, insomuch as she . . . foresaw . . . that many students would find extispicy unsettling, and that certain potions might help them overcome this barrier to learning. I do not think she considered the situation with more nuance than that, but I prefer not to investigate, or even speculate on, the inner workings of Professor Trelawney's mind." Oren smiled; that last bit seemed fair enough.

"Nevertheless, it was, however inadvertently, a brilliant idea, one which I may adopt in my own classroom. Currently I do not teach techniques for extracting ingredients directly from the bodies of animals, for the obvious reason that some students would find it too disturbing, and, alas, I have found that no amount of detention is an adequate remedy for fits of incapacitating nausea. Consequently I have so far resigned myself to providing isolated ingredients and requiring nothing more complicated than chopping or grinding.

Pedagogically speaking, this significantly narrows the range of skills I may teach in my classes. Given Professor Trelawney's impressive success in restoring extispicy to the Hogwarts curriculum, I think it likely that the technique will generalize. I will, of course, follow her example of beginning with time-honored but recently discarded topics, although again I expect her brilliance was inadvertent in that respect as well."

"Huh. I always assumed that sort of thing got covered in Care of Magical Creatures or something."

Professor Snape actually smiled. "I believe, Mr. Wayland, that the entire point of _that_ class, is, in fact, to keep the magical creatures _alive_. That would be the 'Care' part of the title? No, currently once those creatures are dead, a Hogwarts graduate will have had no instruction as to what to do next."

"Oh. Let me guess—nobody in power has bothered to consider this?"

"While that is undoubtedly true, modern fastidiousness and moral confusion are the primary explanations."

"Right, that makes sense. Without the calming draught technique, it would be impossible anyway. Um, I have another question, unrelated . . . since a bunch of Slytherins were speculating about this—in private, of course—I thought it would be good if I asked and settled it. When and how much do you look into the minds of members of your own house, and what do you do with that?"

Snape gave him a look of mild concern, then said nothing for a long while, staring thoughtfully at the wall.

"I look forward to the day, Mr. Wayland, when you learn to pose shorter questions. Nevertheless, I suppose if I do not answer that, the ensuing . . . speculation . . . could be disruptive. You understand that this is not to be spoken of, in any way, outside of the house?"

"Absolutely! That could go badly, even if Dumbledore's habits got brought into it at the same time."

"I will refrain from commenting on the headmaster, or on students from other houses, as you did not ask about them." Oren nodded, indicating this was fine; Snape paused for several seconds. "You may assure your friends that unless I suspect serious physical harm to a student will otherwise occur, I actively avoid learning about their petty dramas. I have found that investigations into the private lives of Slytherin students invariably lead to me learning things I would prefer not to have learned. The gossip I am routinely forced to overhear is bad enough."

Oren grinned, even though Snape did not, and stood up. "Thanks, Professor. I'll leave you alone now." Snape watched him go, and returned to his work.

 

* * *

 

"Professor McGonagall? Do you have a moment?" Tonks was standing in the door to her office, which Minerva frequently left open to make herself seem more approachable.

"I do." She smiled slightly. Years of trying to look stern had led to difficulties when she actually wanted to comfort students.

"Um, may I shut the door? I have some kind of private questions—they're transfiguration questions, honest—but they're sort of personal."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Of course. My door is open to make students more comfortable coming to me with questions; it can be shut for the same reason." She waved her hand, and the door shut behind Tonks. "Now, have a seat, and I'll see if I can answer your questions."

"So, because I'm a metamorphmagus, people keep talking to me about magical ways to change their bodies, but I don't know anything about how anyone else does it. And, er, I hate to embarrass you, but it's usually girls who want bigger breasts." Tonks looked down at her breasts, resisting the urge to give a demonstration; the original seventeen-year-old Tonks would definitely have been the more embarrassed one in the room.

"And, I don't know what to tell them, and I also don't want them going off and trying something dangerous. So, I guess, what I want to know is what can be done with self-transfiguration, or potions I guess, and what I should warn them away from trying. The library doesn't really say anything, which I've learned by now doesn't mean anything since it might all be in the restricted section." Tonks decided that was good enough for now, and looked at Professor McGonagall expectantly.

"Well, that's not what I was expecting when you walked in the door, but it's definitely not the first time I've been asked that question. The short answer is that you should steer those girls away from trying direct self-transfiguration. It can go horribly, painfully wrong and can be difficult to reverse, or even fatal.

Most effects that seem like self-transfiguration are in reality discrete, very specific spells or abilities. The animagus transformation, for instance, is fixed, and can only be learned by preparing your body for it with a potion. Even then, learning it is quite dangerous if done incorrectly.

There is a former colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn, who used to teach potions here before Professor Snape. He has become quite good at turning himself into furniture. That is a specific spell. Doing that sort of thing with free transfiguration is more or less impossible.

Other than the animagus process, there is no potion I am aware of which makes it thereafter safe to engage in self-transfiguration. There are probably potions which will do specific things like increase the size of certain body parts, but I'm afraid that's beyond my area of expertise. I'm sure Professor Snape would be happy to answer any further questions you might have. Do tell me what he says, if you ask him."

These last sentences were said without a change in her expression from normal lecture mode; Tonks did her best to keep a straight face, too. She wondered how many students fell for that, and whether there was some running rivalry between Snape and McGonagall about who could induce students to ask the most embarrassing questions of the other. Heck, she wondered if _she_ had ever fallen for it. "Okay. I think I'll just tell the girls to go directly to Snape, though. Thanks, Professor!"

McGonagall gave her a genuinely warm smile as she left. "Any time, Miss Tonks."

 

* * *

 

"Lemon drops?"

"Chocolate ants?"

"Cockroach clusters? Candied butterfly?"

"Butterbeer pops? Sugar quills?"

"Those are illegal, remember? He wouldn't use that. Chocolate-frosted sugar quills?"

"I thought you just said those weren't allowed?"

"Well, the chocolate-frosted kind isn't specifically on the list."

"I'm not sure that matters."

 

The twins were standing in front of the gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's office, attempting to guess the password. This technique had been known to work occasionally, given Dumbledore's predilection for candy-themed passwords, but it wasn't very reliable.

Albus Dumbledore was, in fact, quite aware of Fred and George's conversation, but was enjoying it too much to let them in right away.

 

"Okay, this isn't working. Should we knock?"

"On what, the gargoyle's nose? What if it bites? Ack!"

 

Dumbledore assumed the gargoyle had made a face at them. He relented and ordered it to move aside.

 

"Maybe it has a sensitive nose."

"Yes, I'm sure it could smell us coming from around the corner."

 

"I'm sorry to have left you two in the hall for so long," said Dumbledore as they arrived at the top of the stairs, "but that was the most creative attempt I've heard in a long time, and I was busy taking notes." He held up a handwritten list of all of their guesses. "Might be useful later if I can't think of anything. Also I'm pretty sure sugar quills are allowed in the school—I know I have some in the office somewhere around here."

 

"They are actually on Filch's list, sir."

"We checked."

"All eleven thousand, one hundred and twenty-seven items."

"Sugar quills are definitely on there."

"It was one of the things we were specifically looking for."

 

"I'm not going to ask why, although of course I admire your diligence. I have no idea why that's on there, but I'll order Filch to remove it. Did you find anything else puzzling on there?"

 

"Pretty much most of the list, sir, aside from a few sensible things and the dark artifacts."

"You wouldn't happen to know what a French can opener is, would you?"

 

"Maybe a can opener that was made in France? I honestly have no idea. I'm afraid that one is too good to remove, though—it would be a pity not to give future students the same opportunity to be confused by it as we have all enjoyed." The twins just nodded. "So, what brings you to my office today? I gather from your expressions that you are not, in fact, in trouble, so you certainly have my attention on this rare occasion."

 

"We'd like you to show us how you did that thing in the food fight."

"Specifically, how you managed to get the food to fly in different directions."

As the twins explained, they were taking about a dozen brightly colored balls out of their pockets, and hovering them in a rotating circle.

"We, in fact, asked Professor Flitwick about it, . . ."

". . . and that's how we learned how to do more than one at a time."

"He said to think of them as a group, and then move the group as a whole."

"So we learned to do that, . . ."

". . . as you can see." Dumbledore nodded, letting them continue.

"But it seems to us that the next logical thing . . ."

". . . is to get half of them moving on the other direction, . . ."

". . . like so, . . ."

One of them grabbed six balls from the group and moved them separately.

". . . except that only works because there are two of us."

"Professor Flitwick said he couldn't do this either, . . ."

". . . and that it wasn't the sort of thing wizards normally tried to do."

"He said we might as well just ask you how _you_ did it."

"Which is what we are doing."

 

Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, taking in the moment. He was the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Order of Merlin First Class, the most powerful wizard of his age, and secretly the bearer of the Elder Wand. And Fred and George Weasley thought he was the logical person to ask for juggling lessons. He had looked into their minds—they genuinely had no idea that the instruction they were seeking would make them formidable dueling opponents, although they certainly possessed the germs of ideas for mischief. The Weasleys, every one of them, pranksters though they might be, were some of the lightest of light wizards that Albus had ever known.

And so he smiled, and took out that wand, and looked at it for just a moment, before carefully snatching the balls from the twins' pattern, one by one. As he did so, each new ball was given an orbit in a new circle, just wider than the one within, until all twelve balls were in a single plane, traveling in alternating directions. He froze the balls, so that the twins could see what he was doing as he simultaneously transfigured the balls into twelve distinct colors. He then then gave each a light and dark half, so that it was apparent when he set each spinning in place, slowly, in various different orientations. Dumbledore took far more pleasure in the twins' obvious awe than he had in the years of fear and flattery he had endured from the Wizengamot and other ministry officials.

Next, still spinning, he set the balls back to moving their prior orbits, and from the inside out, pulled those orbits out of the central plane until they evenly delineated a spherical space, which would have reminded a muggle of an atomic diagram. Then he started perturbing the orbits into ellipses of various lengths, in which the balls flew in paths that circled himself and the twins, came precariously close to some delicate instruments, and caused Fawkes to duck repeatedly and squawk in protest.

"Pure showing off of course, but I don't think anyone has ever asked me to try that before, and in any event demonstrating that it was, in fact, possible seemed like a good start. The tricks to it are an ability to think in complex patterns, and the ability to maintain multiple spells at once. I believe you two will be able to learn both with practice, although of course the overall effect is limited by your magical power, which at your age has only started developing. So you won't be able to do this with, say, geese, right away—something I'm sure our gamekeeper and caretaker will be very grateful for.

Unfortunately I really do need to get back to work. The next step for you two is going to be for you to work through some exercises. I'll get back to you in a few days about that, barring unforeseen circumstances." He gave a look indicating finality, and watched the twins go, a somewhat dazed look in their eyes.

 

* * *

 

"Miss Tonks, I have absolutely no idea why you think I am an appropriate person to direct that absurd question to, nor can I imagine what sort of lapse in judgment would lead Professor McGonagall to suggest that you should come to me with it. Even if such potions _do_ exist, their existence is evidence of exactly the kind of idiotic waste of intellectual resources that give my profession a bad name. If you are determined to get yourself involved in enabling the pitiful insecurities of your fellow students, perhaps you could ask your head of house. Or why not Dumbledore! Or am I the only member of the staff who you assume has nothing better to do? Do not waste my time further. Good day."

 

 _That_ , she thought, was totally worth it.

 

* * *

 

"Why don'tcher have 'em aim fer those blasted grey squirrels—save me the trouble o' shootin' 'em or chasin' 'em away."

Charlie was having tea with Hagrid, and had described his new training exercises for Fred and George. The North American grey squirrel is a dangerous invasive species in Britain, out-competing the native red squirrels and generally doing damage to forest ecosystems. Hogwarts unfortunately lay at the edge of their range, which was advancing inexorably northward through Scotland.

Hagrid and Charlie had agreed that it was too dangerous to let the squirrels into the Hogwarts grounds without a fight, since too many rare and endangered magical species hung onto existence there. The Forbidden Forest was clearly bigger on the inside than it appeared from the outside, so although no one in living memory had found any of its hidden hills and glades, some of the animals obviously relied on them. There was no way, for instance, that a herd of twelve or more hippogriffs could survive on a total territory of eight or so square miles. And if the hippogriffs could get into those places, they had to assume the squirrels would too. The Forest, unfortunately, was not invulnerable to environmental disturbance.

Some predators would eat the squirrels if they got the chance, but unless something rapidly developed a distinct taste for grey squirrel, it wasn't going to be enough. So Hagrid had taken to hunting them with his crossbow, sharing squirrel stew with Fang, or tossing them to the tamer members of the hippogriff herd. It was not a duty he enjoyed.

"Hah! I'll definitely ask them to do that. I don't think a practice bludger has enough power to hurt a squirrel, and I won't let them use a regulation one in there for fear of damaging the trees. But there's no harm in harrassing the little buggers. I don't think Fred and George would willingly kill the squirrels for us, though, no matter how many cute pictures of sad little red squirrels we showed them."

"Seems worth a try ter me. Let me know when yer goin' t'be ou' there next, so I can come watch!"

 

* * *

 

Tonks wanted to ask Professor Sprout about breast-enlarging potions. She really did. She just didn't think she could manage a straight face any longer. It was incredibly frustrating.

 

* * *

 

"So I talked to Professor McGonagall." Charlie and Oliver were sitting at the Gryffindor table, eating dinner. "She hasn't kept in touch with any Gryffindor alumni who would be able to help us with new brooms."

"Oh."

"I know. I feel awful for asking, too, because I think now she's going to be just as frustrated as we are, and think it's her fault for not being a Slytherin. But I didn't know what to say."

Another student might have said something like 'It's okay, Charlie, I'm sure she realizes it's just a game.' Oliver just looked dejected.

"I tried to distract her by telling her about what I'm doing with Fred and George. You know, I talked to Hagrid earlier today, and he asked me to have them aim for squirrels. Just the grey ones, mind you, those are the ones he's trying to chase out."

"Why?"

"They're from America, and we don't want them getting into the Forbidden Forest." Oliver nodded, pretending this made sense. "You were afraid I'd give you the long explanation, for a moment there—I can tell! Anyway after that she looked like she had some ideas she didn't want to share quite yet. So I think we should just wait and see, and try to be nice to her in the meantime."

 

* * *

 

"So then he looks furious, and tells me off, but sticks in a suggestion that I go ask Sprout or Dumbledore. They're all just sending me around!"

"Oh, that's hilarious." Nancy and Tonks were in their bunks. "I wonder what Sprout would say. Or Dumbledore!"

"Yeah. I really want to ask her, but I don't think I can pull it off without laughing."

"Maybe you should ask Snape for a potion to help you keep a straight face? He might even give you one from his private supply."

"Oh, I wish, but he might actually take points if I went to bother him a second time. I don't think he's very comfortable with breasts."

"Reeaally."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as of this chapter, this story has reached over 50k words posted, which would have qualified me for nanowrimo had I been thinking of this as anything like a novel. Go me!
> 
> As to the story itself, it was interesting writing Snape. It feels like for him and Trelawney-at-Hogwarts, getting them to sound right feels like pulling out all the stops. That is, I become more aware of the constraints on other characters' speech, more than I become aware of making a large effort to go over-the-top. The extreme of constraints so far is Hagrid's West Country accent, which I find painfully difficult to do recognizably, let alone faithfully. Unfortunately, or fortunately if you like him, Hagrid is a more or less unavoidable character.
> 
> Finally, the explanation of the potions that Oren gets in the second section here is a highly Snapeified version of a real psychological theory. By "Snapeified" I mean don't try this at home. Hopefully therapists of the relevant varieties do not read time travel fics; if they do, I take comfort in my anonymity.


	21. Squirrels and Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred and George at quidditch practice; some of Dumbledore's thoughts. Short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 21: Squirrels and Bones

 

Friday, October 19, 1990

 

The autumn leaves were at their peak of color, and the forests of Scotland were a sea of red and gold, as the twins went through Charlie's exercises. It occurred to Fred and George that, had they actually played quidditch in the woods, the season would give a distinct advantage to their red-and-gold Gryffindor robes. At least, it would if they were moving silently, which they weren't, as they tried to aim the lightweight practice bludger at actual moving targets.

The are many predators and natural hazards which the North American grey squirrel is well-adapted for dealing with. Wizards on brooms are not one of these, nor are self-propelled flying balls.

The best strategy from a squirrel's perspective, although not necessarily the one they reliably adopted, was to retreat from the bludger into a hole small enough that the ball could not follow. Given that most squirrels had not memorized which hiding places were precisely the right size, occasionally the twins would manage to hit the bludger in after, resulting in several seconds of rattling, banging, and snarling, before the squirrel would launch itself out of the hole at top speed. It only took one instance of an angry, panicked squirrel landing on George's head and digging its claws into his scalp before the twins learned not to fly right up and look inside holes they had sent the bludger into (just in case, Charlie later suggested that sticking their arms into the holes was a similarly Poor Idea).

This was the sort of thing Hagrid was unable to do himself, being too big for a broom, and having to rely for flying on the far less maneuverable motorcycle he had on indefinite loan from Sirius. Nevertheless, he was following along on foot, laughing harder than he had in months.

Several spells existed for extracting animals from holes. Hagrid had suggested to Charlie that he teach some to the twins, but eventually agreed that the knowledge would inevitably end up being misused. While he usually wouldn't consider "trust me, I'm a Weasley" to be a reassuring argument, it seemed reasonable enough this time.

Over the years, Charlie had chased after a variety of birds, usually not bothering to justify it as quidditch practice, even though it was entirely relevant for a seeker. He had flushed partriges and plovers form the scrubby hills near the castle, and woodcock from the muddy creeks that ran down valleys in the forest. As a child he had nearly been speared by an angry heron hunting in a neighbor's koi pond. The best of all, from the point of view of seeker practice, were the wild pigeons which, lacking the tameness of their urban cousins, would fly with wild abandon through the forest canopy as Charlie came hurtling after them. Moving silently on his broom, he had once almost managed to capture a thrush which he had found only by following its song, and on several occasions he had gotten caught in thorn bushes into which terrified finches had retreated. Mostly he refrained from actually snatching them, and when he did, he rarely had the heart to prolong their fluttering panic, holding them only as long as it would take a seeker to be credited with a catch.

So Charlie was happy to find a non-lethal solution to Hogwarts' squirrel problem. Unfortunately it then became Hogsmeade's problem, and squirrels driven over the school walls could just as easily come back.

In any case, Charlie hoped that there would be positive, or at least entertaining, side effects to aiming the twins at an animal that they were free to harass. Neither had actually checked personally, but he and Hagrid assumed that squirrels weren't banned items, and the two of them secretly had a bet of a sickle running on whether squirrels would be found within the castle itself by the end of the month. There were still nearly two weeks left, and it was a bet Hagrid secretly hoped to lose. In fact, if he thought he could get away with it, Hagrid would have unhesitatingly offered the twins a bounty for every squirrel they could sneak into Filch's office. Betting against them was the closest he could come.

 

* * *

 

Albus Dumbledore did not relish the idea of desecrating a grave, but after doing his own research, eventually concluded that the bones of Tom Riddle, Sr. would be very helpful for Voldermort's resurrection, and consequently could not be safely left as they were. And so he was standing in the Riddle plot of the Little Hangleton graveyard, brushing moss, lichen, and dirt off of headstones until he found what he was looking for. He had contemplated whether Voldemort would have thought to rearrange the graves at some point, but looking forward to actual ressurection rituals seemed unlike him. The dark lord was too frightened of death—unwilling to confront his own mortality—, and contemplating even the prospect of becoming a disembodied spirit would necessarily have involved admitting that something might befall him which would truly kill a person without a horcrux.

No, Dumbledore thought, as he started his digging spell, Voldemort could sometimes be a careful plotter, but he was not a sane one, and this was an exploitable weakness. On the other hand, that same insanity made him and his followers unpredictable opponents, forcing defensive resources to be spread thin.

Lately Albus had been spending a considerable amount of time deploying those resources, as he tried to make up for the loss of the blood wards protecting Harry. Augusta had at least cooperated with him fully when it came to structuring the wards on Longbottom Manor, but overall he was having mixed success when it came to securing other places Harry might want to go. Augusta had agreed with him that the materials for this could be paid for out of Harry's trust; relative to the overall assets in it, the cost of even state-of-the-art anchor stones was a negligible expense.

Frustratingly, Arthur and Molly Weasley, too proud to accept something so valuable, had point-blank refused his offers to have wards set up on the Burrow, leaving them with nothing stronger than locks on their doors and windows. Remus was not much better -- he simply did not conceive of himself as relevant to the situation, despite his closeness to Harry's parents, and it was a good day if Dumbledore got the man to answer a letter or floo call. Eventually it was going to take a considerable amount of his time to sit down with these people and personally convince them to go along with his plans.

On Augusta's suggestion he had approached Xenophilius Lovegood, whose daughter seemed to be making friends with Neville. Perhaps because of the recent loss of his wife, Xenophilius stayed nervously out of the way of Dumbledore and a small team of Order members, letting them do whatever they pleased with the property. Dumbledore had hoped the Weasleys would feel some pressure as a result of this, but so far only Neville had wanted to visit Luna, and Ron had been happy to visit Longbottom manor, where he subjected a somewhat overwhelmed Harry to impromptu quidditch lessons.

Another thing that frustrated Dumbledore was the limitations of existing wizarding social circles which he could conceivably manipulate into positive influences on Harry. Existing wizarding families tended not to have a lot of children, resulting in a large percentage of wizards being muggleborn. These weren't ordinarily identified until they approached Hogwarts age, and so they weren't available to Dumbledore yet, either.

He was similarly stymied by the fact that gender roles cut his pool of candidates in half. Amelia had explained to him, slowly, carefully, and with a great deal of amusement, that little boys and girls were not usually socialized to know how to play with each other, that Luna was special, and that Ginny had six brothers and a crush on Harry. Susan was a sweet girl who grasped the political implications of things, but she was clearly at a loss as to what to do with boys. Amelia had made some valid points. "Albus, it just wouldn't work to have Harry invited to a sleepover with Susan and Hannah. Or at least, it wouldn't work the way you are hoping." Dumbledore had dropped the issue.

These were the things that occupied his mind as he pulverized the disinterred bones of Thomas Riddle, Sr., replaced the now alchemically useless powder in the grave, and covered his tracks as best as he was able. He left a glamor over the grass that he would periodically renew until it had grown back in place, and apparated back to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section contains a reference to a song the Scottish poet Robert Burns wrote when he was about Charlie's age; it was the first thing I thought of when I wanted a list of birds for Charlie to harass. Give your house five points if you caught the reference, and another two if you noticed this chapter was uploaded on the poet's birthday, which Scots the world over celebrate by talking to their food.


	22. Defense Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oren returns to the Room of Requirement, and a look at the '90-'91 Defense Professor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 22: Defense Class

 

Wednesday, October 24th.

 

Oren decided that it was once again safe to return to the Room of Hidden Things, after staying away from it for the beginning of the school year so as to remain undetected by other time travelers. For now, he honestly wasn't interested in finding out who they were, just in avoiding them.

He decided he couldn't count on the room not being destroyed a second time, and that it would be sad if he failed to comb through it and preserve anything worth saving. "Worth saving", unfortunately, seemed like a much less helpful concept once he was actually standing there again, taking in the magnitude of the task he had set for himself.

Draco, in the past timeline, said he had practically lived in here for a year. The fact that Draco hadn't used that time to really examine every item in here was the kind of thing that drove Oren up the wall. What is the point, he thought, of claiming to care about preserving blood purity if you lose the cultural heritage that presumably makes it work preserving in the first place? Oren had been raised to believe that pureblood values included an ethos of conservatorship—their families were, of necessity, the long-term memory of wizarding society, responsible for looking after things that younger families and muggleborns would not know about or appreciate yet.

There was unfortunately no one else Oren trusted to help him sort through this room, and he wasn't sure if he was feeling excited, intimidated, or both. Here furniture and boxes had been stacked in gigantic, poorly-balanced piles, which he would have to excavate one broken chair at a time. It was like many rooms in his family's house. Those, at least, he knew through experience were fundamentally manageable, at least if you were determined enough to sift through them methodically. The Room of Hidden Things appeared to be similar, just on a grander scale and all in one place, which made it a spectacular fire hazard.

Oren soon realized that the room contained hundreds of boxes, baskets, crates, and trunks filled with papers, and that these would probably take most of his time. He decided to go through those slowly, in between examining other items, in order to preserve his sanity. Unfortunately the papers probably represented most of the historical, and possibly also the magical, value in the room. He wished he could make it someone else's problem, but his sister wouldn't get here until his sixth year, and there was no "Hogwarts Antiquities Department" that would care about them, either. Maybe his father could suggest some pureblood Ravenclaw who would understand the situation.

As to books, of which there were many, Oren planned to gather them up and take them back to his room, leaving behind only recent copies of common textbooks which had no interesting notes in them. His trunk had a lot of room in its various compartments, and even if there hadn't been plenty of containers in the Room of Hidden Things that he could appropriate, he could always bring more empty luggage from home.

A large amount of the room was taken up by ordinary furniture, much of it broken. Oren thought this made it more of a "room of things nobody had any place better to put" than a "room of hidden things", but the latter name was definitely shorter. With the exception of the broken vanishing cabinet Draco had spent so long on, all of the chairs, dressers, tables, and desks that Oren investigated turned out to be non-magical. Of course, some were nice specimens of early wizarding woodwork, and Oren knew how to restore them, but he didn't actually have a place to put any of them either.

The same was true for the enormous piles of clothing—some of it was quite old and in good shape, but it was of historic, not magical interest. There were also a surprising number of female undergarments. Oren theorized that anything left behind in other instances of the Room of Requirement would eventually wind up here.

By the end of the evening, as he trudged back to his room (bearing a few shrunken, lightened containers of books), he wondered if his efforts would be better spent on fireproofing than on ad-hoc archival.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Oren lay in bed with the lights out, failing to get to sleep. His thoughts wandered to his Defense against the Dark Arts class. Tomorrow it was to be held outdoors, on the hill overlooking the lake. Speculation had ranged from the weather forecast being nice to practical exercises with real lake creatures. Practical exercises were usually a good bet; the last outdoor class had involved long distance target practice.

This year's Defense professor was a large, energetic man by the name of Erasmus Eeles. Professor Eeles was the sort of man who liked to get up before dawn for a nice walk around the lake, even when it was raining, and who couldn't understand why anyone else wouldn't want to do the same. He wore a pointed leather hat which, in its youth, the Sorting Hat must have resembled, and had never been seen in shoes other than dragonhide boots. Given his other proclivities, these last tended to be muddy, much to Filch's private consternation.

The caretaker was terrified of Eeles, which was probably for the best. The Defense professor, 6'3" and muscular, had on occasion cheerfully greeted Filch with a slap to the back, and would not have understood why he couldn't just walk on the floor the way it was obviously designed for. Eeles was young for a Hogwarts staff member—probably in his thirties—but wore a beard which made him look somewhat older. Dumbledore had apparently brought the man in from New Zealand, having temporarily exhausted the pool of British candidates foolhardy enough to take the post. Eeles was not an idiot—he had a one year contract and no intention of signing up for a second year. Quirrel, currently on sabbatical, was already signed on for the following year, giving Dumbledore a welcome reprieve from the usual last-minute recruiting process.

Armed with his own idiosyncratic ideas about the Defense curriculum and a total lack of concern about being rehired, Eeles took full advantage of the autonomy that Hogwarts generally gave to its faculty. On the first day of class he had informed the students that his country had no equivalent of O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s, that he didn't know what was on them anyway, and that he'd be damned if he was going to teach to any standardized tests. "You can prepare for that on your own time," he told them, "I'm here to teach you Defense, not how to make the examiners happy."

The first day of Eeles' class had irritated Oren the last time around, and over the years he had actually thought about what he wished he had spoken up and said. Well, now was his chance.

The Professor continued on, much as Oren remembered: "Note that I just said 'Defense', not 'Defense against the Dark Arts'. I'll explain why in a bit. How many of you have read the preface to your textbook already? Three? That's about what I expected. No, don't go read it now, I'm not going to have you even look in those books for the first few weeks, so put them away. Good.

Now, take out a piece of paper, if you aren't already set to take notes. Okay? I want you all to write down, as best as you are able, the definition of 'Dark Arts'. You have two minutes. Go." He then cast a timing spell that made a glowing hourglass appear on his desk. When the illusory sand finished trickling through it, it gave a metallic 'Ding!' and vanished.

"Right then. I'm going to go around the rooms, and you will tell me your names, so I can learn them, and then read what you've got. You there, in the front—why don't you go ahead."

What followed was a mess. A few words and phrases turned up over and over—'evil', 'hurt people', 'intention', and such—but the answers were all over the place. Eeles surprised Oren by looking pleased and laughing at his version: "A catch-all term applied to politically disfavored magical practices, items, and creatures to the extent that those can be portrayed as threats to wizards or wizarding society; alternatively, the Dark Arts are whatever we say they are."

When everyone was done, Eeles stood in front of his desk and smiled. "Well, you all made my point even better than I'd hoped, which is that nobody really agrees on what the Dark Arts are. Personally, if I had to pick one for myself, I'd have to go with something close to Mr. Wayland's valiant attempt to dodge the question. I especially liked that he mentioned creatures, because sticking those into the curriculum is one of those weird Britishisms that you'd never see back in my country.

Actually, I'm being too polite. I think you're all nuts. This book—your first year, Ministry-approved textbook, here? Spends two pages on, for instance, vampire bats, and a whole seven on iguanas. Vampire bats? Iguanas? How the hell are iguanas a Dark Art? It doesn't even make any sense. And it doesn't get better—if you look at your upper-level textbooks, it's just a parade of various animals, 99% of which most of you will never see.

So no, I have no idea what the Dark Arts are, precisely. For our purposes, we are going to just say that this is a class about how to avoid getting hurt by the magic of hostile human wizards, plus anything else I feel like throwing in, or that the Headmaster says I have to teach you. Can you all live with that? Great.

Right then. Now, I made fun of you all for not agreeing on a definition of the Dark Arts, but we can still benefit from looking at what wizards widely agree is harmful magic. In this country you have selected three spells that you have named 'unforgivable curses', and if you catch anyone using them, you throw them away in your prison—what is it Alka-, no, Aza-, no, Azkaban? okay, you throw them into Azkaban for life. These spells, respectively, take life, take away free will, and cause pain.

It ought to be straightforward enough why the killing curse is objectionable—we don't want people going around killing each other, that's an ancient prohibition. Moving on, though, the imperius curse . . . Mr. Wayland, I see that if I don't let you talk you will probably explode. What is it?"

"Professor Eeles, uh, I don't think that's right, about the killing curse. Um, I've seen it used twice." Gasps came from the class. "The first time, my father used it on a mouse he caught in the kitchen. It was in a jar and running around and scared. He couldn't just let it go outside, because it would just try to get back in, and they carry diseases and chew things. And the thing about the killing curse is it's _humane_ in that situation. Most other curses would blow the mouse to smithereens, and it would be messy and not painless. My father called in my sister and me, and talked to us about it, and let us see the mouse, and explained that the curse is dangerous, and that you treat it like any other dangerous thing that we have in our daily lives. You know not to jump in front of a moving train, you know not to mess around with the killing curse. I think the reason it bothers people is that it's instantaneous and irreversible—when an auror blows somebody's limbs off and they bleed to death in agony over half an hour or something, it doesn't bother people as much. Anyway he made us stand on the far side of the room, and cast the curse, and then we took the mouse out and threw it in the woods where something might eat it.

And then the second time I saw it cast was on a bird—it was little, I think a robin—that had been hit by a muggle car. And it was flapping around and really badly hurt—it wasn't going to live, and there was nothing that we could do for it, but it would have been in pain for hours if it were just left there.

It's only illegal to use the unforgivables on humans. But lots of wizards are so scared of the curse, they think it's actually evil, so they won't use it even when they should. I've seen the gamekeeper here—Hagrid?—shooting squirrels with a crossbow, the grey ones from America he doesn't want getting into the forest—and, I don't want to describe it too much, but they don't die right away. They are very obviously in pain. That's what the killing curse is for.

And, sometimes you need the curse because nothing else will work and otherwise you'll die. My aunt used the killing curse on a werewolf once. She was 82, and she wasn't a powerful witch or some auror or something, and she wasn't healthy enough to apparate—it was about to lunge, she had time to get off one spell, and she did that, and lived to tell me about it. And if that werewolf had been a human, there's some legal idea about symmetrical force, where they would have thrown my aunt into Azkaban for doing that even though she would have otherwise died, because the law is written for powerful wizards and not little old ladies who don't have choices—"

Eeles interrupted. "Mr. Wayland, I think that's enough for now, please calm down. I probably should have cut you off sooner, I'm sorry. Today is actually my first experience teaching.

Sooo, Mr. Wayland has given us an alternative view of the killing curse, and I think he had some valid points. I wonder . . . how many of you have a family member who you know has used the killing curse on an animal?" He counted hands. The class was held with the Gryffindors. Many, but not all, of the hands in the air came from students wearing green and silver. "That's about a third of the class. And how many of you have actually seen it used? Reeally. That's about a fifth. And of that last group, how many of you come from families that are considered pureblood?" No hands went down; again, most were Slytherins.

"Fascinating." He looked thoughtful for a few seconds. "I might regret this, but would I be correct in thinking, Mr. Wayland, that had I let you continue, you would have gone on to talk in a similarly impassioned way about how I was wrong about the imperius curse?" Oren nodded. "Do you think you could do that?" Oren nodded again, and then realized he was expected to say something.

"The first time I saw it, my mother used it on a wren that had gotten into the house and wouldn't fly out any of the windows we had opened for it. It was really little, and something that stunned it might have killed it, and with something like a hover charm, it might have hurt itself struggling. The imperius was the only safe way my mother knew to get it back outside. And since then I've seen my parents use it a lot of times to get the neighbors' cat out of the yard—"

"That'll do." Eeles cut him off, having learned from his earlier experience. "I'm guessing the shows of hands would be about the same. I'm going to go over the traditional attitude toward the imperius in a moment, but first I need to satisfy my curiosity. Mr. Wayland, what about the cruciatus?"

"There is no good reason for causing pain to another living being."

It took a moment for Eeles to realize that was all Oren was going to say. "I guess that doesn't really need elaboration, does it. Thank you, Mr. Wayland." Oren had kept his mouth shut for the rest of that class period. Between self-consciousness, the emotionally draining topics, and the struggle to pass for eleven, he was done.

Oren had worried about getting off on the wrong foot with Professor Eeles, but it turned out not to have made much difference one way or the other, beyond ensuring that the professor always remembered his name. He hadn't heard anything at all from the Gryffindors after class—he liked to imagine they were too stunned to say anything, and not just preoccupied with quidditch or something. He had gotten a "nice comment, there" from Erwin, but overall the Slytherins seemed to have taken it in stride. Oren assumed he did an adequate job of expressing the pureblood position. If anyone took issue with his response about the cruciatus, they didn't have the nerve to say it to his face.

 

* * *

 

Thursday, October 25, 1990

 

The next morning, as Oren walked out of the castle to the assigned meeting place for the Defense class, he could see Professor Eeles positioning an odd device on the edge of the hill. It was just below knee-height for Oren, and other than a rope with a handle for pulling on, he couldn't make out what it might do. He could see similar devices spaced around the hill in increments of a hundred feet or more. The class, curious to see what today would involve, wasted no time gathering to hear Eeles' explanation.

"All here? Great! I've got a treat for you today. This thing here is called a trap launcher, and the easiest way to explain it is to show you." Eeles pulled out his wand, and took the pull-rope in his off-hand. When he yanked on it, the launcher sent an orange disc flying out in an arcing path over the lake. "Reducto!" he shouted, and the blue spell went flying, connecting a few seconds later with the disc, which shattered. The pieces flew off in all directions, vanishing before hitting the ground.

"Now, as some of you might have figured out, this is a muggle device that I modified a bit. It's designed to fire targets like the one you just saw—called clay pigeons—and muggles use it for target practice with their guns. I've made a few tweaks, the main ones being that it never runs out of ammunition, and the targets or their shards vanish before hitting anything. So, no hitting bystanders, no clean-up. Anyway, I have a bunch of these spaced around the castle, and I'm going to have you pair off and try to hit the targets with the knock-back hex I taught you.

Before we do that, I'll warn you that hitting these things is harder for a wizard than a muggle. Can anyone work out why?"

Various hands went up; Eeles tended to call on students at random, or by picking whoever talked the least. "The muggle guns are more accurate?"

"I don't think so. I confess I don't know for sure, but my guess is that it's just a matter of practice for wizard and muggle alike. I had something else in mind."

"Because it's moving?"

"Well, it's moving for the muggles, too. Why would a moving target be harder for a wizard?"

"Because it takes a while for the spell to hit it?"

"You mean, compared to a gun? And why does that make it harder?"

"You have to aim at where it's going?"

"Right. Muggles have to do that too, actually, but it's only a tiny correction compared to what I just did. Wizards tend to learn to use magic, either for fighting or anything else, at close quarters. Usually this makes sense—the further away, the easier it is for the target to see the spell coming and dodge.

The point of the last outdoor class, besides having fun, was to show that wizards can still hit things at long distances. Similarly, the ostensible point of today's lesson is that I want you to become more aware of the speed at which spells travel. So long as you stay safe and aim for the targets, feel free to use any other spells you know. You'll find that the speed depends on the spell and the caster, and maybe on the wand. Yes?"

"Is there a way to make spells travel faster?"

"Not that I know of, although it might happen as you get older or with practice. Normally, with spells that are fired off, once you cast it, it's on its way and you can't affect it. Okay?"

Eeles pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. "I've assigned you partners already, since I think your house system is weird and I don't want to encourage rivalries." He then called off pairs, pointing each in one direction or the other. Oren was put with a painfully shy Gryffindor girl; their entire conversation for the class consisted of "want to go first?", "sure", repeated instances of "go ahead" or "pull!", and "your turn."

 

* * *

 

Partway through dinner that day, at the faculty table, Dumbledore turned to Eeles. "So Erasmus, I see you used your class as an excuse to shoot skeet all day."

"Absolutely! It was great fun. Some of the kids even admitted it was fun, too."

"How did it go?"

"Really well, I think. If I hadn't turned the lesson into a game, it would've been a lot harder to get them to actually think about how spells work."

"I see you didn't award any house points for it."

"Nah. Do you think I should? We could have a tournament later in the year."

"Oh, that's entirely up to you. We give faculty a lot of freedom here. I must, admit, though, that I'm looking forward to your pedagogical justification for teaching them to fish."

"What? Oh, no, I'm not planning that. I was never really into fishing."

"Ah. Perhaps bowling or golf, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems like any fanfic author writing in the year before the books start is obligated to take a stab at the "who preceded Quirrel?" question. I thought it was past time I did, too. Actually, I don't think I've read anything else that starts when this story does (no don't give me distracting examples!).
> 
> Finally, remember that none of the characters are actually the voice of the author, nor should you assume they are particularly sane. I probably worry about that too much -- maybe I should just put that disclaimer at the beginning or something.


	23. A Visit to the Greenhouses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybill goes to see Professor Sprout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 23: A Visit to the Greenhouses

 

Saturday, October 27, 1990

 

Sybill Trelawney was sitting on a bench in Regent's Park, watching an informal muggle football game. She had spent the morning at the London Zoo, and had told Acamar that she'd come meet him in the library before they went to lunch. For now she was wearing her street appearance, glasses tucked away and hair under control.

When she sat down, there was a young man lying on a blanket behind her, staring up into the trees. Ten minutes later she glanced back there again, and he had not moved. He had shoulder length hair, hadn't shaved in a few days, wore a flannel shirt and jeans with holes at the knees. There was a dirty, beat-up looking bookbag lying next to him. Sybill knew she couldn't tell post-punk from grunge or whatever, but was pretty sure he was a typical college student.

She generally did not introduce herself to strangers while sober. Since her night with that guy—Dave—who she had never gone back to see, Sybill had spent nearly every weekend in London. Every few months she would go into bars or clubs and drink, and when that happened she would invariably wake up in the bed of some attractive young man, feeling much better about the world. So far she hadn't had the courage to try anything with them while she was sober enough to remember it, and she seemed to only be picking younger guys who had similar problems, and who lacked the confidence to try anything the morning after. She had become very good at embarrassing them, though, and had enjoyed some nice breakfasts and walks in the park before her good mood wore off and she felt the need to run away.

The knowledge that she had to go meet up with Acamar soon meant any conversation with the guy on the blanket would be limited to a few minutes. She decided to force herself to talk to him.

"What're you looking at?" It sounded dumb as soon as she said it, but after walking up to him, it was all she could think of to get his attention.

He took a moment to respond, slowly turning his head to look at her. "The trees . . . the colors in the trees. The red leaves . . . are they always this red?"

"I think so. Sometimes we don't appreciate the familiar until we can look at it with the eyes we reserve for the strange."

"Yeahhh." She noticed something was wrong with his eyes, and leaned in for a closer look. His pupils were dilated. "Yeah, you can tell 'cause my pupils are big. Kinda creepy sometimes when my friends do it. Have to be careful looking up—sun's so bright. But the leaves . . ."

"Mushrooms, right?"

"Yeah." He smiled, turning his gaze back to the trees.

"Do you see patterns in the leaves that you wouldn't have noticed before?"

"Yeah. It's hard to describe . . ."

"If it's the mushroom I think it is, it should let you see things you couldn't before. It makes your mind stop censoring things that you've learned to treat as irrelevant. If you pay attention to them now, you can learn how to see them later, when it wears off. Just don't overdose on it or take it too often."

"Have you done them before?"

"My grandmother made me try a lot of things."

"Cool grannie."

"She was."

Sybill decided that was as good a time as any to get going, said goodbye, and headed off to the library.

 

* * *

 

Monday, October 29, 1990

 

The Hogwarts greenhouses were a mazelike complex of long, traditionally-shaped greenhouses connected by glass-covered hallways and grand atria, mixed in with various specialty rooms, and somewhere in the middle, Professor Sprout's office. The greenhouses were more or less static, having been built after the magic of the founders had been lost, but that hadn't stopped centuries of Hogwarts staff from adding new buildings as they ran out of space in, or maybe just got bored with, the old ones. Sometimes the new buildings were simply added between the old ones, crammed into impossible spaces using magic. Everything stayed where it was put, at least in theory, but that didn't stop the occasional room from getting lost for decades at a time, reappearing only when everyone had forgotten about it.

Sybill was nervously making her way down the Hall of Ferns. So far as she knew, there were no magical ferns that attacked people, but it wasn't her specialty. She could see Pomona's office through the glass, up ahead and to the left. The office, as best as she remembered, had a few stone walls that were taller than a regular greenhouse, and that you could navigate towards, if there wasn't oo much blocking your view. Her memories, though, were pretty hazy, since she hadn't been back here since the late 70s when she had been a student.

Professor Sprout's office did, indeed, turn out to be around the corner at the end of the ferns, but the door was shut and locked. Eventually Sybill found the herbology professor by following the sound of Pomona humming to herself in a storage room, where she was loading empty pots onto a cart.

"Oh! Sybill! I don't think I've seen you in here since you were a student! Welcome back! Did you come for a particular reason, or are you just poking around?"

"I was hoping you could help me with something."

"Of course!" Teasingly, she asked "You aren't planning to teach some sort of augury using the entrails of plants, are you?"

"No, but there are some ways to do things like that. I don't think they've ever been taught at Hogwarts, or at least not in Divination classes. But I _was_ hoping you could help me try some teaching techniques we haven't used here in a few generations."

"Ohhh." Sybill could see Pomona's mind churning briefly, running through possibilities, before giving up. "How intriguing! I can't say I know much about what you do in your classes, let alone what they did a hundred years ago. So what did you have in mind?"

"Sometimes seers need help getting into the proper state of mind to do their work. When I was a little girl, my grandmother must have had me try oh, maybe fifty different fungi and hundreds of plants." She added, quickly, "in safe amounts, of course," as a look of understanding appeared on Sprout's face.

"Is that so. Well, I guess that only makes sense. _I_ wouldn't be foolhardy enough to try that—most of the plants in here are dangerous enough without me eating them! But you say this used to be done at Hogwarts?"

"Yes—I was looking through some old textbooks, and the further back you go, the more of it you find. Of course, I'm not sure what I can obtain nowadays, which is what I'm hoping you can help with."

"Oh, certainly! We have an awful lot of species in the greenhouses, and there's also the forest to consider. Did you have anything in particular in mind?"

"Well, for plants, one of the common ones was mandrake, which can have a bunch of different effects, depending on how it's used."

"You can make a pretty good aphrodisiac with it! Or, so I hear."

"I was hoping to take advantage of its other properties—it can also alter perceptions and induce visions. How hard would it be to get?"

"Well, I don't have any at the moment, although there could always be a few hiding out somewhere—I'll keep an eye out for those. Depending on how soon you need it, I could probably order some seedlings, and we might have some seeds in the storeroom. If not, we can order those too, of course . . . But the adults don't travel well, and most extracts of them need to be used soon after preparation. Hm. When were you hoping to use it?"

"Oh, any time before the end of the year. I wanted to try it on my seventh years first, as a sort of treat for sticking with me all the way, so, I guess, any time, as long as they have a few days to finish their essays about it before the N.E.W.T.s start."

"Oh, in that case, we'll do it from seed! Unless you're trying to make the restorative draught, you can use the roots of the younger plants for most purposes. Oh, this will be nice, I know exactly how I'll work it into my lesson plans, too. Children always love the mandrake lessons—all the screaming and writhing when they repot them!"

Sybill smiled. "That would be great. Do you still keep mushrooms in the greenhouses?"

"What! Hogwarts, stop growing mushrooms altogether? We have hundreds of species of fungi. Some of them are even growing places they were planted on purpose!" Sybill remembered from her days as a student that plants and mushrooms would turn up growing in all sorts of improbable places, the main difference being that the mushrooms didn't need light for it. "Do you know which you want?"

"Well, mushroom names are sort of problem . . ."

"Oh, yes, that's true, isn't it . . ." Sprout scrunched up her face thoughtfully. "The textbooks today would be different from the ones you were looking at, and your grandmother probably used different names, too. This can be tricky."

"Well, the last Divination textbook to use them listed 'blue-frilled crow agaric' and 'spotted vaporbell'. I think the muggles mostly use some Psilocybe species from the Americas. And based on what my grandmother worked with, I'd be happy to get any of the ones she called 'dusty reindeer agaric', 'Circe's toes', 'Jenny-go-dreaming', or 'those damn little purple ones'."

Pomona laughed at that last, and clapped her hands. "Now that _is_ a bit of a mess, isn't it. Well, come on! Let's start be narrowing it down visually. We'll start in the mushroom house."

The Hogwarts mushroom house was a long, greenhouse-shaped building with no windows, lined on the inside with tiers of growing beds. These contained wide, movable trays of dragon-dung compost in which all manner of fungi could be found. The trays were organized according to some scheme comprehensible only to Professor Sprout; most were unlabeled. Some were behind glass walls, others behind chicken wire.

Upon entering the dark room, Pomona waited a moment in the dark, "so you can see all the luminescent ones—we have a whole bunch this year—the red glow in the back is from Kashmiri firespores. Don't get too close to them. Let's have some light now . . . there." A series of dim lanterns lit up along the ceiling.

After about half an hour of peering, pointing, backing away rapidly, and getting hissed at, Sybill had pointed to a few candidates that Pomona would do further research on. "Excellent! Of course, that's just the mushroom house. We've got more under some of the flower beds, since it's dark down there and the space is free. That's all Hogwarts had, in fact, before one of my predecessors had the mushroom house built." Sprout led the way down several halls, and opened a door to a greenhouse Sybill didn't remember seeing before. "This seems like a good place to start. Do be ready to duck, though, just in case. Eeek!"

A large fruit came flying past them, splattering against the wall. "Tsk, tsk. One of these days they're going to break the glass doing that. I've told them, but they don't listen! It's just some grapefruit cultivars, nothing fancy, but they do get violent sometimes. I think they're out of ripe fruit for now, so we should be safe." Sybill spent a nerve-wracking five minutes kneeling next to the beds, keeping a watchful eye on the trees growing at the far end. They really did look like normal citrus trees, except for the threatening branch-waving.

This sort of thing went on for almost another hour until a chime came from within Pomona's robes. "Ah, that's my watch. I need to get to greenhouse three for my next class. Feel free to keep looking! It was so nice to see you again, Sybill—I'll get back to you about the mandrakes and those mushrooms you were wondering about. Bye!"

Sybill had been too embarrassed to ask Sprout for directions to the nearest exit, and so was forced to wander aimlessly for some time. She eventually found the door out, five buildings away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of like the greenhouses. You can probably tell.
> 
> You might also notice I'm methodically trying to write with a lot of different characters. That's part the "writing exercise" aspect of this . . .


	24. A Hearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 24: A Hearing

 

Thursday, November 1st, 1990. 6:45 AM.

 

" _Rennervate!_ Hey Rat, wakey wakey! Time for breakfast!"

Kingsley Shacklebolt hovered some scraps of eggs and bacon, along with a generous amount of rat chow, into the cage on his coffee table, then refilled the rat's water bowl as well.

"Come on, get up, we're going somewhere today and I won't have to take care of you anymore. So you don't know when you'll eat next."

This last was unnecessary, since once the rat finally got moving, it would eat anything Kingsley put in front of it. When Amelia gave the rat to him, she hadn't given Kingsley any instructions beyond telling him "it's an unregistered animagus. I have plans for it. Keep its cage locked, don't let it escape, keep it alive, and keep it secret." And so the rat had stayed in Kingsley's living room for the past month, eating a mixed diet of rat chow and leftovers, and awaiting whatever plans the Director of Magical Law Enforcement might have for it. Kingsley had not grown fond of the rat during this time. When he couldn't look after it, he put a sleeping charm on it. When he was home, he took the charm off, at which point it usually chose to go back to sleep.

Yesterday he had, at long last, gotten the note he had been waiting for:

 

\-------------------------------

Kingsley,

Come straight to my office tomorrow morning. Bring the rat. Disillusion it first.

Amelia

\-----------------------------

 

A few minutes later, after cleaning up in the kitchen, he shrunk the bag of rat chow and pocketed it. No sense keeping it, he thought. "Alright, rat, good thing you eat fast. ' _Somnium!_ '" He put some anti-spill charms on the bowls, rechecked the strengthening and locking spells on the cage, and disillusioned the whole thing. After fumbling around for the now-invisible handle, he picked up the cage and flooed to work.

 

* * *

 

"Okay, boss, he's all yours." Kingsley had shut the door behind him, plonked the cage down on Amelia's desk, and disillusioned it. "Here, have some rat chow, too."

"You fed it rat chow?"

"It's a rat, isn't it? And you didn't exactly elaborate on 'keep it alive'."

"No, I didn't. Did it seem to mind?"

"What, the rat chow? The little bugger ate anything and everything I could think of to feed it."

"Hm. I guess it was used to it. I'm told it spent most of the past decade in rat form, posing as somebody's pet. Anyway, you aren't quite free of him yet." She re-disillusioned the cage, as Kingsley gave a look of mixed curiosity and disappointment. "Take him down to holding cell 'B' on the Wizengamot level and wait for me to send for you. Oh, and keep that stupid bag of rat chow with him."

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later Amelia was in the waiting area, checking on her witnesses, as the members of the Wizengamot trickled in to take their seats, clutching copies of the _Prophet_. There was a lot of muttering and grumbling, but most of them had learned that getting information out of Amelia was next to impossible.

She had only briefed Fudge the night before. Right before sending out the notices of the session in the afternoon, she had sent a memo to Fudge telling him not to comment on anything, and promising an explanation later that day. She had been true to her word, floo calling him at 10 PM to 'give him a heads up', ensuring that he would lose sleep over the situation and be more manageable today, as well as minimizing his ability to stupidly leak anything to one of his 'trusted advisors'. Fudge was already in his seat, displaying all the excitement of a man who thought he knew a secret before everyone else.

"Arthur, Percy, are you two okay?" They nodded.

"Rita, I know I don't have to thank you for coming today, since you'd be hovering around out here regardless. I have no idea if we'll need you or not—I'm not planning on calling you myself, but there's a good chance somebody will ask to hear from you. Other than that, you need to stay put and leave the other witnesses alone, if you want to work with my department like this again. Got it?"

"Of course, Madam Bones. Nevertheless, I must object once again to the disgraceful way that members of the press are excluded from the proceedings of our government!"

"You know very well why you aren't allowed in there—otherwise everyone would be looking at you when they talked, and hamming it up for the papers, instead of getting anything useful done. Take it as a compliment, and _try_ not to die of frustration while you're waiting?" She could hear Arthur snickering behind her, and turned around. "And that goes for you too, Mr. Weasley—don't talk to anyone, and don't tease Ms. Skeeter too much."

With that, she turned and walked into the courtroom, the doors shutting behind her automatically. All the seats were full; excellent. Once at the podium, she banged her gavel three times, and looked out at the assembly.

"I have called this session to reopen the matter of Sirius Black. Before we proceed, I must ask your indulgence to the extent of letting me present witnesses without interruption, as I have gone to some effort to prepare my presentation today. You may always call them back later.

As most of you appear to have gathered from this morning's paper, the Ministry has been collaborating with the Daily Prophet in this investigation, as sometimes, even using veritaserum, a journalist can uncover things an auror cannot." She could see Fudge, sitting on her left, relax; she was indirectly giving him credit and covering for his lack of involvement. "The Prophet's lead reporter is available in the waiting area should we require her."

She nodded to the bailiff, who departed towards the holding cells.

"For those of you who have not read the paper, you should know that nine years ago today, the day after the Dark Lord's failed attempt on the life of Harry Potter, Sirius Black was arrested for the murders of twelve muggles and the wizard Peter Pettigrew. Given the number of eyewitnesses and the wartime footing of the Ministry at the time, Mr. Black was sent to Azkaban directly without a trial. Evidence has come to light casting doubt on the fairness of that decision. Today's hearing will revisit the issue, and hopefully conclude with an outcome which is just, and which fully addresses public doubts concerning the Ministry's honor and competence.

We will now proceed. Bailiff, please bring in Sirius Black." The audience remained silent, but Amelia could see the curiosity on their faces. Even those who had tuned out her little speech now leaned forward to get a better look at the haggard-looking man being led to the witness chair.

No effort had been made to clean Sirius up before trial. Amelia wanted to avoid appearances of witness tampering, and hoped to create sympathy for the man should he turn out to be innocent; both argued for bringing him to the courtroom directly from his cell. The man was rail-thin, hair matted and clothes in rags, skin pale, loose, and blotchy, eyes sunken and haunted. She could smell the stench of Azkaban on him from her podium; witches and wizards in the front row were wrinkling their noses as well. Sirius was obviously weak, almost staggering into the room, but trying his best to move steadily and keep his head up.

He had been removed from his cell only a half hour ago, without warning. Amelia was not entirely convinced of his innocence, having interrogated neither him nor Pettigrew yet herself. If Black was really a dangerous criminal, she would not be seen later as having taken unnecessary risks.

The auror escort indicated the chair; Sirius sat down, and additional sets of manacles were added to those he had been led in with. She waited as the clerk made a show of producing a bottle of veritaserum and placing three drops of it on the prisoner's tongue.

Everyone waited silently for nearly a minute, watching in fascination as the symptoms of the potion appeared—subtle, but perceptible, on a man who had spent nearly a decade in Azkaban. When the clerk nodded to her, she began her questioning.

"Would the prisoner please state his name for the record?"

"Sirius Black."

"Mr. Black, today we will be asking you about the events leading to your imprisonment nine years ago. This proceeding is not a trial, but at its conclusion the Wizengamot may at its discretion vote to declare you innocent, should that be proven here today. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Very well. When did you first meet James and Lily Potter?"

"Our first year at Hogwarts, I think. I'm not sure."

"When did you last see Lily and James Potter alive?"

"It was a few days before they died. I'm not sure."

"Where were you when you last saw them?"

"At their house, in Godric's Hollow."

"And was there a specific purpose to your visit?"

"Yes."

"What was that purpose?"

"To change secret keepers."

"So, their house was under the fidelius charm?"

"Yes."

"And you were at some point the secret keeper for that spell?"

"Yes."

"At which times were you the secret keeper for that spell?"

"Up until that last night I saw them. I think it was first set up a few months before that. I don't remember when."

"So until the last night you saw them alive, you were the only secret keeper for the fidelius charm on their house, correct?"

"Yes."

"And on that night, the secret keeper was changed, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Who made the decision to change it?"

"James."

Amelia knew she was building up suspense unnecessarily, but she didn't care -- this was her show.

"During the time you were the secret keeper, who did you tell the secret to?"

"Well, there was James, Lily, Peter, Albus, Remus, Alice and Frank, Hagrid . . . I'm pretty sure that was it."

"Did you ever tell anyone about the secret without getting explicit permission from James or Lily?"

"Maybe Remus? No one else."

"Who became the Potters' secret keeper after you?"

"Peter." Definitely some startled looks from the audience, no gasps or other noises, though.

"Did James tell you why he wanted Peter to be the secret keeper?"

"Yes."

This aspect of questioning under veritaserum could be very useful for presenting evidence in exactly the order you wanted, but it could also become damn irritating.

"And what was his reason?"

"He thought I was too obvious, and no one would guess it was Peter."

"Before James and Lily died, did you tell anyone that Peter was the new secret keeper?"

"No one."

"To the best of your knowledge, did James or Lily tell anyone the secret keeper had changed?"

"No. They said they weren't going to tell anyone else, not even Dumbledore." Albus, relegated to his regular seat in the Wizengamot while the DMLE head was presiding, raised his eyebrows, then quickly composed himself. He had agreed to stay out of the proceeding, but only after considerable browbeating by Amelia.

"Thank you. I'm going to ask you a more open-ended question now, and I want you to answer only with facts you know to be true. No speculation or opinion. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Please tell us what you did on the day James and Lily died, up to the time of your arrest the next day."

"Ohhhh . . . I spent most of that day in hiding. That night I went to check on Peter, at his place. He wasn't there. He was supposed to stay put. The thing that worried me was that the place didn't look like there had been a fight—it was like he had just gone out. So I left to warn James and Lily, but when I got there, the house was destroyed. I went in through the rubble and found James dead in the living room, and Lily, dead, upstairs with Harry. I picked up Harry and went outside, and at that point Hagrid showed up, and said Dumbledore had sent him, and that Dumbledore had felt the spell breaking. That is, Dumbledore had cast the fidelius originally. I still don't understand how that worked.

Hagrid said he was supposed to take Harry to his relatives—Lily's sister—and we argued about that but I eventually gave in, because I couldn't really take care of a baby. I loaned Hagrid my motorcycle, and they left.

After that I went to hunt down Peter, because I thought he had betrayed James and Lily. I caught up with him the next day, and I yelled something at him, I don't remember what. He looked scared, and didn't say anything, and we started firing curses at each other. Then there was a huge explosion and he was gone, and there were a lot of dead muggles. I just stood there and waited for the aurors to show up."

"Did you have actual knowledge that Peter Pettigrew had betrayed the Potters."

"I don't know. He must have told someone, since he was the only one who could. And when I found him he just tried to get away, and didn't reply to what I yelled at him. If he were innocent he could have just said he didn't do it."

"Thank you, Mr. Black. We will call you back later after we hear from some other witnesses. Bailiff?"

Amelia waited until Sirius was out of the room. "Albus, would you please come forward?" The clerk swore Dumbledore in; there was no point in using veritaserum on him.

"Before today, when did you last see Sirius Black?"

"A few days before Halloween, 1981. He was still secret keeper then so far as I know."

"Until this investigation began several weeks ago, were you aware that the Potters had changed secret keepers?"

"No, I was not. No one told me at the time."

"At the time of Mr. Black's arrest, did you believe he was guilty of killing Peter Pettigrew?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"And did you believe he betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord."

"I did. As I said, I thought he was their secret keeper, and that they would tell me if they changed it."

"That will do for now. You are dismissed for the moment, but you remain sworn in, and I will call you back shortly."

"Of course." Dumbledore calmly returned to his seat.

"Bailiff, please bring in exhibit A. Ladies and Gentlemen, again I ask you to please indulge me and avoid interruptions. The Ministry has gone to some effort to arrange this hearing, and I hope we can be forgiven a little showmanship." She gave a faint smile, which Fudge echoed. Good.

The bailiff returned, followed by Kingsley, who was carrying the rat cage in one hand and the bag of rat chow in the other. He set both down on the evidence table. The rat remained asleep, presumably charmed. "Thank you. Please bring in Arthur Weasley."

When Mr. Weasley was sworn in and had stated his name, Amelia asked him to look closely at the rat. "Are you familiar with this rat?"

"Yes, I think so. That looks like Percy's cage, and those look like our bowls." Arthur noticed the bag of rat chow, and Amelia could see him struggle to maintain a straight face. "We never used that brand of food, though. Anyway, it has a bald spot on the back, annnd, yes, yes, the missing toe."

"When did you first see this rat?"

"It just showed up at our doorstep one day, maybe eight years ago, and it seemed tame, like it had been someone's pet but had been abandoned. When I got back from work that day, it was still there, so I asked my kids if any of them wanted to keep it as a pet. Percy agreed, so we put it in a box, and went out and got the cage for it."

"Thank you. You are dismissed. Bailiff, please bring in Percy Weasley."

That done, she questioned the boy.

"Yes, Madam Bones, this is Scabbers. I mean, I named him Scabbers, and I recognize him." Percy gave a puzzled look at the bag, but said nothing.

"And when did you last see him, before today?"

"About six weeks ago. I had brought him with me to Hogwarts, and his cage was next to my bed. One day Fred and George came to me and said Dumbledore had been in to search my things, and when I got back, Scabbers was missing."

"Thank you, that will do for now. Albus?"

The old wizard got up and stodd next to the cage, smiling.

"You removed this rat yourself from Percy Weasley's dormitory, did you not?"

"That is correct."

"And what led you to do this?"

"An anonymous tip, in the form of a note. All it said was that that the rat had some interesting properties, that I should treat it as a dangerous dark artifact, and that I should bring Minerva McGonagall with me when I retrieved it. The note, alas, was of the sort that burst into flame after being read." There were some suspicious looks in the audience; Amelia herself had to agree that this seemed very convenient for Albus, if he had something to hide.

"And you were, in fact, accompanied by Professor McGonagall when you did this?"

"I was."

"And it was she who discovered the hidden properties of this rat, was it not?"

"It was!"

"Very well." Amelia visibly took a deep breath, and walked down and around until she was next to the cage. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain calm, and indulge us by staying silent. Kingsley, please stand by, just in case." With as much flair as she was able, she drew her wand and used it to unlock the large padlock on the cage, swung the door open, and hovered the rat into the air in front of her audience. "Note that this rat is under a sleeping charm." She hovered the sleeping rat into the witness chair, stood to the side, looked out at the chamber, and looked at Fudge, who nodded.

In quick succession she fired off the bright white spell to make an animagus transform, and the instruction to the chair to put its manacles in place. "Clerk, please hand me the veritaserum. I would like to do this personally. Thank you." With a technique perfected by years of auror work, she opened Pettigrew's jaw and placed three drops of veritaserum on the back of his tongue, then closed his jaw and cast a spell to make him swallow.

"We will give that a minute before bringing him to. In the meantime, I will fill you in on my own role in this investigation. After examining this man himself, Albus Dumbledore secretly turned him over to me in the Hogwarts headmaster's office. I was aware at that point of the Prophet's plan to interview Death Eater prisoners in Azkaban, and decided to let that play out without revealing that we had an additional witness in custody. The Ministry made a deal with the Prophet such that the paper would publish their article on the same day as this hearing, which happens to be the nine-year anniversary of the events we are investigating today.

Neither Mr. Black nor this witness were interrogated under veritaserum before this hearing. This prisoner before you is my last witness, so please bear with me for a few more minutes. I will open this proceeding to questioning from the floor soon enough. Now," she said, turning to Pettigrew, "that should be plenty long enough. _Rennervate!_ "

Pettigrew yawned, opened his eyes, and jumped in place as he saw the sea of people watching him. The Wizengamot chamber was unmistakable, and the strange taste on his tongue could only be veritaserum. He was almost grateful for the potion, actually, because without its effects he knew he would panic and make a fool of himself. This way he at least had a chance to give misleading but true answers.

A woman walked in front of him; evidently she was in charge of this hearing. She was looking into his eyes. He tried not to meet her gaze.

"Please state your name."

"Pe-pe-pe-peter Pe-pettigrew." This was apparently a revelation to the audience, there were gasps and startled looks.

"I will get right to the point. Did you reveal the location of James and Lily Potter to Voldemort or his allies?" Amelia noticed the audience was too engrossed to make a fuss over the Dark Lord's name; good.

"Y-y-y-y-yes."

"To the best of your knowledge, did Sirius Black ever betray James or Lily to Voldemort or his allies?"

"No."

"And when did you last see Sirius Black?"

"The d-d-day we f-fought in the street, after J-James and Lily died."

"That fight ended in a large explosion, right?"

"Yes."

"Was that explosion caused by a spell you cast?"

"Yes."

"And you then slipped away in your animagus form?"

"Y-yes."

"Do you know where Sirius Black has been between that day and today?"

"In-in-in Azkaban." Peter looked dejected, even with the effects of the potion.

"And why do you think he was there?"

"Because everyone th-thought he murdered me and all those muggles."

"In the explosion that you caused, you mean?"

"Yes."

"And you are, in fact, still alive?"

"Y-yes?" He looked up, decided (correctly) that he was being mocked, and looked back at the floor.

"One last question. How did you lose your finger?"

"I cut it off in the fight, before running away."

Amelia turned her back, returning briskly to her podium, letting her plum-colored robes billow out behind her. Once there, she briefly glanced over the faces watching her. "Thank you all very much for your patience. This hearing is now open to questions from the floor, so long as those bear upon the guilt or innocence of Sirius Black. We will have separate hearings later regarding what is to be done with Mr. Pettigrew here, or any other related matter that may arise, but for now the Ministry is keenly interested in resolving Mr. Black's case as expeditiously as possible." She glanced at Fudge, who nodded.

"Yes, Mr. Doge?"

"Have any of these witnesses been checked for memory charms?"

"Good question. I have personally checked both of the Weasleys we heard from today as well as Mr. Pettigrew, and found no evidence. Albus informed me that he did the same at the outset for those three, and also found nothing. Mr. Black has been examined by several aurors, but not by me personally or by Albus. We can recall any of the witnesses to be reexamined here, if you wish. Mrs. Longbottom?"

"Surely nine years in Azkaban, or posing as a pet rat, must have some effect on one's grasp of reality. I move to send a summons to St. Mungos for healers able to evaluate _all_ of the witnesses, including the Weasleys, for mental tampering and sanity, and to adjourn the hearing for lunch while that takes place."

"I second that!" chimed in Fudge.

"Very well. All in favor of having the witnesses examined while we take a two hour break?" An overwhelming number of hands went up.

"Motion passed—Kingsley, take Pettigrew back to his cell. Bailiff, go sequester the Weasleys _and_ Ms. Skeeter. Now. The time is now . . . 11:09. Please be back here by 2; we will reconvene shortly thereafter. Session is adjourned." She banged the gavel three times and sat down, exhausted. She waited for the clerk to finish shuffling papers, then asked him to arrange for lunch to be brought to everyone compelled to remain behind.

As she braved the crowd on the way back to her office, she saw Fudge grandstanding in the waiting area. She was in fact grateful to him for that, as it diverted attention and left her free to escape. She might actually thank him later.

 

* * *

 

Amelia had returned home for lunch, not wanting to be around the office where anyone could come bug her. She later learned that Lucius Malfoy had taken Fudge out to lunch, finding a restaurant in Diagon Alley where they would be as visible as possible. That seemed reasonable enough—he didn't want to be seen panicking, and it was a chance to grill the Minister for information. She presumed Malfoy would be disappointed to discover how little Fudge actually knew. Or, alternatively, and perhaps more likely, Fudge would simply make stuff up and not bother telling her about it. Exasperating, certainly, but nothing she hadn't dealt with competently before.

The afternoon session of the Wizengamot went relatively quickly. The healers reported nothing wrong with the Weasleys or Rita (who was no doubt indignant about being examined, but hid it well), and found that Black and Pettigrew were free of memory charms. As to their grip on reality, the healers diagnosed them both with a wide variety of psychological issues, but none that would cast doubt on their competence to testify. The deciding factor for most members seemed to be the congruence between their stories, despite not having seen each other for nearly a decade.

Amelia had been planning a motion to simply release Black, but Dumbledore had moved for a vote on his actual innocence, which the chamber had overwhelmingly passed. At that point Amelia brought the session to a close. She explained that the Ministry wanted more time to prepare its case against Pettigrew, and that trying him on the spot would risk the same sorts of mistakes they had made with Black. No one objected to this—just because the Wizengamot was largely unelected didn't mean they liked seeing themselves criticised in the press; most of them wanted to at least _seem_ like upstanding members of society.

Her last pressing concern for the day had been to figure out what to do with Pettigrew. She didn't like the practice of sending people to Azkaban before trial, but Kingsley's living room was no longer an option, and in this case she was worried both about the prisoner escaping and about someone trying to kill him off before he could reveal secrets. She was pretty sure, from Dumbledore's report, that there were no further secrets to be wrung out of him, but the public didn't know that, and she was concerned about the political repercussions should he be assassinated while in ministry custody. She would, of course, tell everyone that Pettigrew was being sent to Azkaban for his own safety, in the hopes of making Malfoy and his cronies squirm. The cage and rat chow went into an evidence room; she thought Fudge's press people would want them for a photo op.

She had an unfortunate setback, though, when her counterparts at Azkaban Security Officials and Very Important Wizards refused to accept the prisoner transfer, saying they lacked facilities to hold a rat animagus, and would not take responsibility for him unless the Ministry agreed to pay for a long list of renovations they wanted. The hastily-sketched out list was ostensibly all because of Pettigrew, but there were some vague items on there that might turn out to mean "employee bonuses and new furniture for the staff room." It was a clever tactic, if exploitative, since, under the circumstances, public opinion would fall squarely behind giving the Azkaban staff everything they asked for. She would talk to Fudge about it in the morning. For now, Pettigrew was staying in his holding cell with a 24-hour guard, and she was going home.

 

* * *

 

Dumbledore had personally taken Sirius back to 12 Grimmauld Place, Arthur and Percy in tow, just to make sure he was okay. Sirius, for all the toll Azkaban had taken on him, had rolled his eyes and laughed when Dumbledore suggested he check himself into St. Mungos. "Right, because what I really need now is to be locked up in some soulless institution. Of course." Dumbledore admitted he had a point.

They were now standing on the doorstep, trying to get inside. "Well, here we are. Does the door open automatically for you, Sirius? Okay, _Alohamora!_ What's this?"

As the door swung open, a large brown owl came from behind them, a letter tied to its leg. The rush of air from its wings ruffled the curtains hiding the portrait of Sirius' mother. The curtains immediately drew back and Mrs. Black started shrieking about her "good-for-nothing blood traitor son." The owl, panicked, veered to the far wall, nearly crashed into it, veered towards the stairwell, where it was spooked by the mounted heads of two dozen house elves, and swooped into the dining room, where they found it sitting on a chair back, shaking its feathers and clicking its beak in irritation.

"Look at that! I'm a free man for half an hour and already I'm getting fan mail!" Sirius had to walk around the table to get to the owl, who wasn't interested in going anywhere for anybody at the moment. "Damn it. You know, if James or Remus were here, they would have followed that up with how the girls must have seen my photos and been overcome by my dashing good looks, and that they hear the starved, dirty, haunted look is in this year. Thanks," he said, untying the letter from the owl, "and sorry about my mother." He was rewarded with further beak clicking, and what might have been a glare.

The other three waited, struggling to read the expressions of a man whose emotions had been twisted by dementors for nine years.

"It's from Dora, my cousin. She's at Hogwarts now . . . she says this is a Hogsmeade weekend coming up and I should come see her, and that she's not allowed to go stalking any more celebrities if it means getting her mother involved—what does that mean?—but that she thinks family ought to be an exception. Harry!" Dumbledore managed not to react; it would make sense if Nymphadora were the one to go look for Harry, since Sirius was his godfather. Yes, that made sense. "She says he's staying with the Longbottoms, and that I should go see him, because I'm the closest thing he has to real family. Way to lay the guilt on there, girl! I'll do it, though—I feel terrible for not being there for him while he was growing up."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "If I might point out, Harry is still only ten years old. He hasn't even started at Hogwarts yet, and thus has a great deal of growing up left."

"Damn it all, though, I missed so much. You know I haven't seen a paper since 1981, right?"

"Arthur, could you go see if the floo is working?"

"Sure."

Sirius, evidently having finished the letter, folded it up and put it in his pocket. "I think the first order of business is for me to go get cleaned up, and see if I have any clothes around this place. Actually, I hope the shower's still working."

"Well, the floo isn't," reported Arthur, returning from the drawing room.

"Darn. Albus, that's one of the school owls—do you mind if I give it some letters before it goes home?" The owl, smart enough to know when it was being discussed, looked back and forth between the men.

"Oh, of course. May I also suggest seeing whether your mother's house elf is still alive? 'Kreacher', I believe?"

"What, before he surprises me in the shower, wailing about blood traitors and worried that I won't mount his head on the wall when he dies? No, if he's alive, he can stay wherever he's lurking."

"A house elf would know, for instance, if there were any food in the house."

"Oh, right, food. I think I remember what that is. Yeah, I'll worry about that eventually. Let me go see something . . . damn, you know, I used to be able to run up these stairs two at a time. Hang on . . . water's on in the bathroom, so the shower upstairs probably works." He began carefully working his way down again, then decided to just sit on the stairs. "Honestly, Albus, I've just spent nine years being watched over, and while I infinitely prefer you and Arthur to a bunch of dementors, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself here, even without getting a new wand yet. Just leave me the owl and I'll be fine."

"I suppose I can't argue with that. I must admit, no one has ever described me as 'preferable to a dementor' before. Of course, it's still a lot nicer than many of the other things I've been called over the years."

Sirius laughed, possibly for the first time in a decade. "It's not quite an Order of Merlin, is it? I could get you some sort of medal, but then everyone else would want one too, and I wouldn't be able to say no to most of them. Not quite worth it to be able to say 'No, Malfoy, you really _are_ that annoying.' Seriously, though, and I am always Sirius, I'm going to go stand in the shower, or perhaps the bath, for about an hour, and then traumatize Kreacher by walking around the house nude while looking for something to wear. Unlike my hypothetical adoring female fans, you probably don't want to be around for that. Owl, you stay there." With that, he headed back up the stairs.

"Arthur, I can take Percy back with me to Hogwarts. Thank you very much for coming along. I can't say I'm happy about leaving Sirius alone like this, but I don't think anything bad will happen as a result either. Percy, say goodbye to your father, and meet me on the front walk."

 

* * *

 

Kreacher did, in fact, turn up while Sirius was in the shower, waiting silently where he would not be seen until Sirius stepped out, and then making a show of screaming in surprise. Sirius, not to be outdone, screamed louder. It was exhilarating.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, do calm down, I'm sure the sniveling fool knows nothing of use." A half dozen men were meeting in Lucius Malfoy's drawing room. Most of them looked anxious. Lucius did not.

"You must admit, that was a rather narrow line of questioning, and assuming Bones was telling the truth, that was the first time they had used Veritaserum on him."

"Really, Lucius, that's the sort of hare-brained thing they'd do, saving it for the trial, just to make a show of it."

Lucius sighed. "Remember he was apprehended by Dumbledore? Who is an accomplished legilimens? Dumbledore would have taken as much time as he needed before contacting the Ministry. If Pettigrew had any secrets, Dumbledore now knows them, even if Bones doesn't."

"Well, what if Dumbledore wrote out the questions beforehand—scripted the whole thing—to hide whatever he wanted to hide?"

"Oh, surely Dumbledore had some clever little scheme and was manipulating everyone involved. I would consider it suspicious if he didn't. In any case, I am convinced Pettigrew himself makes no difference to any of us. He was never privy to any secrets. At this point, he would at best be an untrustworthy spy, if he were released, given his animagus form."

"So did we just come here for you to tell us to calm down, or is there anything you think we should actually worry about?"

"Ah. Yes. What I want to know is who, if anyone, tipped off Dumbledore, and whether that was the same person who tipped off the Prophet or the Ministry. If it were the same person, knowing both that Black was innocent and that Pettigrew was alive, that person would have to know quite a bit. I freely admit I was unaware of Pettigrew's animagus form, and I genuinely thought Black had killed him." He considered this for a moment. "Even if I had known those things, I would have left both of them where they were. So, if we are to believe their story of the anonymous notes, and I can't say I do, that would imply someone with inside knowledge who decided that it was time to change the status quo after nine years. Why now?"

"The only thing that changed was Harry Potter getting rescued from those muggles."

"I think it's just as likely that they were all part of the same plot."

"But Lucius, didn't rescuing Harry make Dumbledore look bad? He really didn't seem like he was in control of that."

"Perhaps he wasn't, but he could easily have instigated that himself. There might be any number of sensible reasons why he might want to do it that way. Even more if, as I suspect, Dumbledore is not in fact motivated by sensible reasons." There were chuckled from around the room; Lucius scowled. "Don't underestimate the man—he plays the crazy old wizard role exceptionally well. What if, let us imagine, he wished to distract the public, so that they wouldn't suspect him of having orchestrated the whole thing with Black. He has now made himself look fallible, and the public will remember that for a few months and then forget about it by the time the next exploitable crisis arises. He could have controlled the timing as precisely as he liked, too—imagine that he simply noticed the rat on his own last year, and read Pettigrew's mind for several days back then, before obliviating him so well St. Mungo's can't find it.

And what about Harry? Dumbledore has convinced the public, and presumably Harry, that he knew nothing about how those muggles were behaving. Remember, if Dumbledore thinks the boy is a useful tool, he's gong to want to control him. Let the muggles beat him up until right before Hogwarts, then stage a rescue! He apologizes for not checking on him, looks properly contrite, and then pulls the grandfatherly act so that the boy feels bad for him and trusts him. Now, that all sounds crazy, and I'm not saying you or I would engage in something like that, just that we would be unwise to put it past Dumbledore.

In any case, the problem is that if he made up a story about a note, then tipped off the Prophet with another note, he could then insinuate there is some disaffected Death Eater out there, even though the parsimonious explanation is that all of these events have the fingerprints of Albus Dumbledore all over them." Apparently finished, he returned to sipping his brandy.

"Honestly, Lucius, that sounds like a stretch. A Slytherin would pull that stuff. Dumbledore manipulates people, sure, but he's not so subtle as you're making out."

"I'm not saying he's subtle. I'm saying he's insane."

"Doesn't he want us to think that?"

"Of course! But we're not living in a fairy tale where trying to convince everyone that you are crazy is a sure sign of your grip on reality. It isn't."

"So what do you think we should do?"

"We should, of course, claim that Dumbledore is a responsible, well-informed, and powerful wizard, who surely must have checked on Potter several times a year. We will say he would not have let a friend go to Azkaban without getting his side of the story, and that he would of course have noticed an animagus in his school." Lucius smiled. "You may, without fear of controversy, assert that Albus Dumbledore surely must have had excellent reasons for everything he did, and no one will ask you to speculate in public as to those reasons."

"It would be nice to know, though, what he's up to."

"No! He _might_ have in fact been clever. I agree that we can't rule that out. It is just as likely, though, that he is an old fool who made one miserable mistake after another, and had to rely on anonymous tips for anything to go right."

"Damn it, Lucius, this isn't clarifying anything!"

"That is because it is not, in fact, clear to me either!"

Everyone sat in silence for a while.

"Gentlemen, if I may change the topic, do we know if anyone has questioned those muggles?"

"Why, Amycus, that is a truly excellent idea, and I admire your initiative in volunteering to hunt down Harry's relatives yourself. When you find them, why not send Skeeter after them? It's what Dumbledore would do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Rennervate' is J.K. Rowling's retcon of 'ennervate'. 'Somnium', and probably other stuff, comes from Methods of Rationality.


	25. In the Hog's Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonks meets with Sirius for the first time on a Hogsmeade weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 25: In the Hog's Head

 

Saturday, November 3, 1990

 

Tonks stepped into the Hog's Head, and peered unproductively around the dark room while her eyes adjusted. Aberforth, apparently having been asked to keep an eye out, spotted her, waved, and pointed to a booth near the bar. She had gotten most of the way there when Sirius got up, looking much better than in the _Prophet_ photo.

"Dora!"

"Sirius!" Tonks wasted no time giving him a warm hug. If Sirius had any lingering concerns about how people would treat him, she wasn't going to be part of the problem.

"You were what, this high when I last saw you?"

"About that, I think. You look a lot better than you did in the paper. Still rail thin."

"Hey, give me time. Besides, I'm working on that. I ordered us lunch."

"So what have you been up to since you got out? Did you go see mum?"

"Not yet, actually. I don't want too many people to see me until I've recovered and am a little less, well, demented looking."

"We're family, Sirius, I'm sure it would be fine."

"Unless I count as a celebrity you've been stalking, of course—what on earth did that mean?"

"Uh uh, you first."

"Fine, fine. So, Albus and Arthur took me back to the old Black place. That owl you sent flew in the front door ahead of us—really helpful, that—I made the poor thing do a lot of work before it went back to Hogwarts, and that was after that awful portrait of my mother started in on it."

"I remember that thing! Poor owl."

"Yeah, I got a lot of indignant beak-clicking over that. Anyway, the first thing I did was stand in the shower for approximately forever, although getting out was a bit of a shock. It turns out there's still a house elf alive. It was lurking around the corner and screamed when it saw me."

"Kreacher, wasn't it?"

"Right. So anyway, I just screamed back at it for a while, which was the most fun I'd had since I got out. Then I ordered it to go find me something to eat, and spent most of the evening writing letters. I sent the owl off with five of them, I think.

Yesterday I spent most of the day waiting around for the Ministry to reconnect the floo, which was what one of those letters was about. They finally showed up in the early evening, saying Fudge had ordered them to fit me in that day, and otherwise I'd have had to wait a week."

"Oh, that's good, I wonder what else you can get that way?"

"What, by making people feel guilty?"

"Oh, I don't think Fudge is complicated enough to feel guilt—he's got less emotional depth than a post owl. But I think doing stuff for you will make him look good, for at least as long as your story stays in the papers."

"You always were clever, weren't you? Merlin, it's good to see you again, Dora. Anyway, besides waiting, I spent most of yesterday getting Kreacher to clean the house up. I didn't have the energy for much else, really. I'm not sure I should get a new wand until I've waited a little more for the effects to wear off."

Tonks looked thoughtful. "Just a minute." She went over to the bar and whispered something to Aberforth, who looked at Sirius, nodded, and walked back to the kitchen.

"What was that about?"

"You'll see."

"So here I am, and you, young lady, owe me an explanation of that celebrity stalking comment."

Tonks tried to smile sweetly, but it came out as a grin. "Oh, that was because I found where Harry's muggle relatives lived, kidnapped him, and then made mum come home from work to help figure out what to do next."

"I seeee . . . How _is_ Harry doing? The last I saw him he had just survived a killing curse, and the next day I was in Azkaban, so I'm kind of missing the last eight years worth of news."

"Wow. Have you even seen a paper yet?"

"Nope. I remain completely ignorant of current events that I wasn't present for."

"Wow, where to start . . . So, the world sort of settled down after Voldemort disappeared. Some of the Death Eaters got thrown in prison, some others got off by claiming they were imperio-ed, and it's been pretty peaceful since. I'm in my last year at Hogwarts. I'll get back to Harry in a moment—you know how you got cleared, right?"

"Dumbledore says they got Pettigrew, and he was living with the Weasleys the whole time. The aurors did a good job of keeping the two of us apart, though, so he's still alive."

"I hope you leave him that way. If you get yourself sent back to Azkaban, I'll kill you myself."

They were interrupted at this point by Aberforth, who set a mug of hot chocolate in front of Sirius. "The young lady says you're still suffering from dementor effects. Told me to get you this. Smart girl. Listen to her. Your food should be ready in a few minutes—now drink that!"

Sirius shook his head, impressed. "You know, I didn't think of that at all." He blew over the mug, waiting for it to cool down.

"Hang on . . . one more thing one of us should have thought of earlier . . ." She cast a series of privacy charms. Sirius looked even more impressed.

"I counted ten different charms there, and I only recognized six. What on earth are they teaching you kids at Hogwarts now?"

"Not any of those, that's for certain. I have enough trouble staying out of trouble as it is—I can't get out of _everything_ just by looking like somebody else, you know."

"Ohhhhhhhh. I completely forgot. And now you owe me stories about what you've been up to that require all that . . . spellwork."

Tonks leaned forward. "The thing about secrets, is that they don't stay secret all that easily. Dumbledore, for instance, has not yet discovered that I know occlumency. Do you suppose you can keep him from finding out that you don't?" She grinned; now he was really impressed.

"Merlin, Dora, we should make you an honorary Marauder. I'm sure Remus will agree once he meets you. You're blushing."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are! And you didn't blush over hiding things from Dumbledore or getting in trouble. I wonder . . . Nooo. Let me guess, you met Remus, and he said something really embarrassing about our Hogwarts days. Am I right?"

"I met Remus this summer at Harry's birthday party. He said he'd met me when I was little, but I don't remember it."

"Aaannnd you are still blushing."

"Aannd the food is here." She stuck out her tongue, as Aberforth walked through the privacy charms to set down their plates. It was greasy pub food. "Now, Sirius, you have barely touched your cocoa. You'd better do it, or I'm sure this young lady will be cross with you."

"He's right! I can pout really well." She demonstrated.

"Okay, okay!" After Aberforth had left, and he had eaten a few bites, he continued. "Come on, Dora, spill. If it's about me and Remus and James back at Hogwarts, I think it's only fair to let me know!"

"I'll tell you later, if you're good. Now, before we get distracted again, and while we're on the subject of secrets, if that rat has any about _you_ that he might spill to help himself, you might want to pre-empt that. Padfoot."

"How . . ."

"You're talking to a girl with a reputation for stalking celebrities. How I know _that_ one has to stay secret, though, even from Dumbledore." She tapped the side of her head. "Can't have him doing the twinkly-eye thing on you and getting me in trouble, can I?"

"Okay. I'll think about it."

"No, you will do whatever it takes to stay the hell out of Azkaban! And you will do it because I am counting on you, and because you are Harry's godfather, and because you are mum's favorite cousin, and because the Ministry is full of idiots and there's always a chance of Voldemort returning, and, frankly, because there are too many stuffy pureblood bastards who would be awfully smug about it if you went back. And you will do it before the rat goes on trial again. Like, say, right after I have to go back to Hogwarts this afternoon, if the office is open." This was as far as Tonks could go while keeping a straight face, as Sirius had gradually sunk down into his seat and covered his head with his hands, and was now making little whimpering noises. "Okay, fine, if I get to abuse my carefully-honed pouting skills, I guess that's fair, too. Still, don't give Peter any leverage, okay?"

"I hate doing it, after all these years. It feels like getting caught at a prank, and it's the end of a secret we all shared."

"You kind of lost the secret when the rat defected. He could have turned you in at any time, but he didn't have any reason to. He does now."

"I know, I know. I'll do it."

They ate in silence for a while, interrupted only by Aberforth checking on them. "You're thin as a rail. Pub food's good for that. Lots of fat and protein. Eat!"

Once they had made a sizable dent in their food, Tonks continued. "So, Harry."

"Yes, Harry." Sirius smiled. "Do tell."

"I won't tell you how I hunted them down," she tapped her head, "but when I found him, he was in pretty bad shape. Thin, like they weren't feeding him. Hold on, don't go storming off after the Dursley's yet, although you'll want to when I'm done. Anyway, I came back the next day to check on him. He was somewhere outside Dumbledore's wards, so I figured I might as well side-along apparate him somewhere more private where we could talk, but when I touched his arm, he flinched. Yeah, that was about how I reacted too, so instead of just going off somewhere secluded, I took him straight home with me, and made him come into the kitchen and take off his shirt, and it was so awful I was crying . . ." Tonks' eyes were watering just thinking about it. She blew her nose into her napkin. "Sirius, those people were horrible! He had bruises all over—I was kicking myself for not just grabbing him the day before, because some of them were obviously from after my first visit." She blew  
her nose again. Sirius' impulse to hunt down the Dursleys was mitigated by the presence of a crying girl. "So after that, there was no way I was letting him go back! I went and got mum from work, and she had the really brilliant idea of calling Mrs. Longbottom—you remember Augusta Longbottom, right?"

"I was always terrified of her. Does she still wear that vulture hat?"

"Oh yes, she came swooping into our living room, vulture hat and all, and I had barely asked Harry to show her his bruises before she just cut us all off, scooped him up, and took him off to St. Mungo's. Then she goes to the Ministry and scares the living crap out of everyone there until they give her custody, and she pulled it all off before Dumbledore knew what was happening! It was brilliant."

"Wow. So did Dumbledore ever go check on Harry after putting him there? I always though that was a weird decision."

"Nobody knows. He says he put Harry because Petunia was Harry's only blood relation, and it let him use blood wards. And I assume Dumbledore knows what he's talking about and that they were a truly epic feat of spellwork as far as blood wards go."

"Of course."

"BUT WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT OF THE BLOODY BLOOD WARDS IF THE KID IS GETTING BEAT UP EVERY DAY BY HIS FUCKING SO-CALLED 'FAMILY'?"

"And you were scared _I_ was about to go off and murder the Dursleys."

"Sorry. If you had seen his bruises . . . By the way, if it comes up, mum, Mrs. Longbottom, and the healers at St. Mungo's all have photos. In case Dumbledore tries anything. He knows we've got 'em. Mrs. Longbottom spent several hours in his office just cursing him out."

"So he's living with her and Neville, now?"

"Right. They'll start Hogwarts in the fall. We have our work cut out for us making sure he's ready."

"We?"

"Um, it would be really convenient if you could just avoid Dumbledore for a while. Do you think you could do that until, say Christmas?"

"I guess so? Dora, what on earth are you up to? And how is Harry involved?"

"Two stories. The first is that I overheard the Slytherin girls talking—I'm in Hufflepuff, and I usually sit with my back to them, so I hear things whether I want to or not—" Sirius laughed. "So anyway, they were talking about love potions, and about how Harry better watch out once he gets to school. He's kind of got a following of obsessed girls."

"Way to go, Harry!"

"Only if he stays safe! That's where we come in. One of the girls said her little sister practically has a shrine to Harry, made of cut-out photos and stories from the Prophet. Apparently there were all these girls out there this summer crying to their mommies that they didn't get invited to Harry's party. The kid's going to practically need auror training and a case of antidotes to stay out of trouble."

"Ouch. I had some narrow misses with love potions, back in the day—I can give him some pointers. But you said two stories."

"The second is the one you need to keep secret." She rechecked her privacy charms. "So I realized after a few weeks that Harry never replied to any letters I sent him, and while I don't expect much from a ten-year-old kid, I started to get suspicious. So I put a tracking charm on a letter to see where it was going, and the next morning it just registered as 'up'. And so I go flying around the rooftops on my broom, until I narrow it down to this tower with an open window. Have you ever tried to climb through a tiny window from a broom, while you're hundreds of feet off the ground?"

"A few times, actually . . ."

"Seriously?"

"Always."

"Huh? Oh, hmph. Tell me later. Anyway, _I_ hadn't, and I nearly broke my neck, because it was dark in there and the floor was five feet down. Also my broom went flying off without me. So what do you think I found?"

"All of Harry's mail since Dumbledore got custody of him?"

"Exactly. He hasn't turned off the forwarding charm, and he doesn't know I know."

Sirius was grinning. "So what did you find?"

"Thousands and thousands of letters. Um, there are charms for getting letters in and out of closed envelopes, which I'm, um, kind of good at."

"Naturally! You will, of course, teach me later?" Tonks realized at this point that Sirius looked years younger than he had when she walked into the Hog's Head; just hamming up her stories for him was worth a mountain of chocolate bars.

"Of course. Anyway, I also kind of have been reading his mail. Like, lots of it. And there are a lot of personal letters in there. Some of them are . . . very personal." She was blushing.

"He's only nine . . . what would he be getting?"

"Ten. And stuff from girls his own age. Some of whom own their own cameras. And are obsessed with him. And apparently have unsupervised access to darkrooms and owls."

"Nooooo."

"Would I make something like this up?"

"Yes."

"Okay, fine. Nyeh!" She stuck out her tongue, then turned her nose into a pig snout.

"Ack!"

"Ha. In this case it's all true. So I've seen . . . you know . . . girls who are at Hogwarts right now."

"Okay, you wouldn't be so embarrassed if you were making it up. Oh, I wish James could hear this." Sirius went from glee to wistfulness.

"No, don't think about that right now! You didn't let me explain how you come in."

"What? My dear cousin, you now have my complete and undivided attention."

"We need to get tens of thousands of letters and packages to Harry without anyone else getting their hands on them or realizing we've done it."

"And we need to do this because some of them contain naked photos."

"Some of which are probably quite illegal to possess. Of girls Harry will definitely meet. And because the idea of Dumbledore getting his hands on those photos creeps me out. Incidentally I have already taken the liberty of securing some of the most . . . sensitive of the letters."

"Naturally."

"But there are an awful lot of letters, and I've only gone through less than a fifth of them. So there are probably a lot more."

"Right."

"Trunks, Sirius."

"Trunks?"

"Shrinkable trunks. I think about fifteen hundred cubic feet of storage should do. Unless you have any better ideas. I can't carry all the letters loose."

Sirius looked thoughtful. "Dora, may I ask you something?"

"Is it a coincidence that you had this plan ready to go at the same time I got out of Azkaban? Not that I'm complaining, mind you—I am, of course, at your beck and call when it comes to pranks on behalf of my godson. But you sound as if you had time to think about this before the Prophet article came out on Thursday."

Tonks tapped her head.

"You did. Sweet Merlin, you did. I have no idea what you are up to, but you can be sure I will be signing up for Occlumency lessons as soon as I see you off this afternoon."

"No, you will go to the Ministry first."

"Oh, come on, whatever you are up to, it's obviously mischief of the highest caliber, and I want in. I can be extremely helpful, you know!"

Tonks grinned. "I'm counting on it. But you're of no use to me back in Azkaban."

Tonks watched as the gears turned for several seconds. "Let me get this straight. You are pressuring—"

"—no, ordering!"

"Ordering me to register as an animagus because you need me to help you smuggle naked photos of girls to my recently rescued godson, under the nose of Dumbledore—"

"—and Mrs. Longbottom—"

"—right. Noses."

"And then he will need your help keeping those same girls—"

"—who have sent him naked photos of themselves—"

"—from dosing him with love potions. Or whatever else you can think of that they might try."

"Dora, Dora, sweet Merlin I missed this, you have no idea." There were tears in his eyes. Tonks reached across the table and held his hand, which would have been a comforting gesture if it hadn't made it harder for Sirius to blow his nose. "Thanks," he said, extricating his hand and blowing his nose on his napkin. "Do you have any other things to tell me in private? I've spent the last eight years in the dark and I'd like to settle up the bill and go outside."

"Ministry, trunks, and . . ." she tapped her head. "I think that's it for now." She wanted to add 'introduce me to Remus', but chickened out.

"Right." He put several sickles on the table—enough to leave Aberforth with a generous tip—then stood up and stretched. "Well, then, now what?"

"We go to Honeydukes, where you will buy yourself the entire chocolate section, while all of my classmates stare at us and point, of course!"

"Of course."


	26. Lucius Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Malfoy decides to pay a visit to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 26: Lucius Malfoy

 

Tuesday, November 6, 1990

 

Professor Eeles was holding the first-year Defense class outside again, for another 'practical exercise'. He had spent last week getting the students to the point where they could cast a simple shield spell. Today he had paired them off again (with members of their own houses—he wasn't stupid!) and was having them throw rocks at each other. It had recently rained, so there was a lot of mud and gravel flying around.

Oren, who had never been any good at this sort of thing the first time around, was concentrating on holding his shield in the path of whatever Bernard flung at him, when he heard a familiar voice behind him. Oren motioned to Bernard to lay off, and turned around to see Lucius Malfoy shaking the hand of the Defense Professor.

"Hello. I do not believe we have met. I'm Lucius Malfoy, from the Hogwarts Board of Governors."

Eeles, who had never heard of Malfoy before, gave a wide smile and clasped the man's hand in a firm handshake. "Erasmus Eeles. This year's Defense Professor. Pleased to meet you. Come around to inspect the school, eh? Checking up on us?"

"Yes, in fact. I have to say, gravel doesn't exactly seem like the Dark Arts. Wouldn't it make more sense to teach the children to defend against actual spells?"

"Sure, if you don't mind them freezing up if they ever get in a fight with a muggle." Oren admired Mr. Malfoy, but he had to admit it was fun to watch Eeles leave him speechless. "Or," he said, misinterpreting Malfoy's look of surprise, "if you don't think that's a fit subject for us to be talking about, they still might wind up facing something that spits, or really any sort of physical threat. They need to know what magic can do in order to use it when they need it."

Eeles had, a few seconds after meeting him, managed to accuse Malfoy of being oversensitive to muggles. "No, Mr. Eeles, that's quite alright. I had heard through some of these boys parents—yes, hello," he waved to several of the Slytherins "that you had them shooting skeet. I don't suppose you have a similar justification for that, do you?"

"Well, mainly it's that most targets don't stand still, and I wanted to drive home the need to know how fast their spells travel. If you're looking for the Dark Arts angle on this, don't look at me—I'm teaching a generic defense class. You know, the regular textbooks are full of things these kids will never see. I don't know why you keep insisting on using them."

"I must admit, Mr. Eeles, to never having looked into any of the Hogwarts curriculum in that detail. Perhaps I should?"

"Well, _I_ think it's a mess. Full of useless requirements that _somebody_ on your board put in there for political reasons, or maybe to fill in gaps after they took out the useful stuff they didn't like. Of course, I'm only here for a year, and my visa runs out after that, so it's not like anybody's going to listen to me. You, though," he said, grinning and pointing at Malfoy, "could do some real good around here if you got involved. Assuming you don't have some political agenda that makes you want the kids to spend a week learning about iguanas or something."

"Iguanas?" Lucius was smiling. It wasn't every day he got to meet someone who had never heard of him.

"Don't take my word for it—look in the books! Three quarters of it, I have no idea why it's there. Total mystery. As you can see, I decided to ignore it. No offense meant if, you know, you're partial to iguanas, or didn't like my remark about muggles, of course."

Oren had been waiting to see how Mr. Malfoy would handle explaining that no, he was okay with the idea of wizards protecting themselves against muggles. To his surprise, this never happened. Lucius just smiled, and said "you're a remarkable man, Mr. Eeles."

"Erasmus, please."

"Of course. And Lucius will do for me, too." They shook hands. "I wonder . . . is there anything else you think I should look into?"

"Hm. Oh, the Divination Professor created quite a stir recently. I think it was brilliant, personally, and I know Severus agrees, but it was pretty controversial." Eeles continued grinning, watching Malfoy's eyebrows rise in curiosity. "Oh, I won't spoil it—go ask her yourself! She's shy, but you seem like a nice enough guy—I bet you can get her talking."

"I think I will go do that. It has been a pleasure to meet you, Erasmus."

"Likewise, Lucius. Good luck!"

Oren wondered when the last time was that anyone had wished 'good luck' to Lucius Malfoy, let alone meant it sincerely.

"Okay, all of you, get back to the exercise. Go on!"

 

* * *

 

When Lucius arrived in the Divination classroom, he found it empty. He had taken a year of Divination before dropping it; he lacked any gift for it, and the teacher at the time was useless anyway. The classroom was familiar, though. He decided to have a look around.

The furnishings were approximately as he remembered them. Trelawney had added some cushions and a few cheap knick-knacks, and the old oriental rugs looked a little more threadbare in places. The shelves held the same array of teacups and crystal balls that they had when he was a student.

The lingering smell of incense was new, and made him want to sneeze. He cast a few air-freshening charms; no one would notice. "Now, if my memory serves me, her quarters should be back here through this anteroom . . ." The next room mostly contained empty shelves and counters. There was a pile of boards on the floor, but he couldn't make out their purposes. He knocked on the next door.

"Professor Trelawney? Are you in there? It's Lucius Malfoy, from the Board of Governors. I'd like to have a word with you."

After a moment's consideration, he realized that might not have been the best choice of words to get her to come out. Perhaps he could catch her some other time, or just send her a note. Yes, a note might be less intimidating, and in the meantime he could ask Severus about the situation.

 

* * *

 

Even if Sybill hadn't been terrified of Malfoy already, she hadn't wanted him to smell the alcohol on her breath. She really should find a charm to hide that, she thought—surely someone must have created one. In any case, she would have to ask Dumbledore about Malfoy. He hadn't sounded upset—it seemed like he was in a good mood, actually—but that didn't mean things were going to go well for her.

At dinner that night, Sybill almost expected to find Malfoy seated next to her at the faculty table, ready to grill her about her teaching methods in the hopes of finding a reason to have her fired. He had probably heard about the extispicy lesson—it was ridiculous for her to think that wouldn't cause problems for her. Maybe she should reconsider her other plans. But Pomona had already gone to a lot of effort for her already! They had put in several more hours trying to narrow down mushroom species, and the first-years had already planted the mandrake seeds. Hopefully no one would say anything to her about it today; she didn't think she could take more anxiety.

It looked like the other professors were distracted by giving Eeles grief about _his_ teaching methods, so she would be off the hook for now. At least Eeles could stand up for himself, and was anyway too oblivious to know when someone was trying to pick on him.

"So, Erasmus, rocks today, was it?" Dumbledore asked, taking a piece of chicken from the serving plate.

Eeles smiled cheerfully. "Well, the ground was pretty wet, so there was a lot of mud, too, but that was the basic idea, yes."

"Rocks?" asked Flitwick, sounding amused.

"Oh, yes," said Dumbledore, "he had the first-years throwing rocks at one another today."

"Come on Albus, it's not like I had them paired up across houses this time. And they were all good sports about it."

"But," asked Filius, "what exactly was this supposed to accomplish?"

"What, throwing rocks? Practicing shield spells, of course. It's how _I_ learned it. Of course, I understand you people prefer to stick to spells alone. You know, I had a visit from one of your Board of Governors during that class—name was Lucius Malfoy—seemed like a nice enough fellow, although I think I managed to shock him a little."

Several of the professors looked like they were about to choke.

"Oh dear. What on earth did you say to him, Erasmus?" asked Sprout, from the other side of him.

"Oh, I think he was trying to give me a hard time about not using spells, and I said the first thing that came to mind, which was that just spells was fine, if you don't mind the kids freezing up if they ever get in a fight with a muggle. It was like I broke some sort of secret taboo, and he didn't know what to say to the uncouth foreigner. Really, you British are so damn twitchy when it comes to wizard/muggle relations. Oh, sure, laugh at me.

I just hope he didn't take it the wrong way, and now the Board of Governors will all think I'm here training your next Grindelmort. Am I missing something here?"

Dumbledore managed to recover, and decided he probably ought to explain. "I wonder, Erasmus, did you try backing up after you said that, trying to reassure him that you didn't hate muggles, that sort of thing?"

"I think I was a little defensive at first, and fed him some other reasons for using rocks, since he didn't like the one about muggles. But later I said something like 'no offense meant'."

"Hm. How to put this. Lucius Malfoy is a . . . controversial figure. He's heavily involved in politics, and his faction doesn't have a very positive view of muggles. I expect he's never had the experience of someone assuming the opposite about him, and was at a loss for words."

Hagrid clarified. "We're laughin' at Malfoy, not you! Well, mostly."

 

"Oh Severus!" Pomona leaned over her plate so she could see down the table. "I was asked the most interesting question yesterday. The student said you sent her to me. She said you didn't know the answer." Severus' grim expression only encouraged her. "Now, _I_ know at least three potions for that, not that she needs any herself, but I could send you the formulas, if you like! Oh yes, Minerva, she said you had tried to help her, too, before sending her to Severus."

"It _is_ his area of expertise."

"A very reasonable assumption, I think. But the young lady said he seemed rather uncomfortable with the topic. If you were afraid she might hurt herself, you needn't worry. All three of the potions are safe and easy to brew, and they have effects that wear off on their own, too! You know, it _would_ be a good way to get your students to pay attention in class."

Madam Pomfrey had no idea what this was about, other than a way to embarrass Snape. That was good enough. "Severus, you really ought to consider teaching some less hazardous potions, at least to the first years. A first year _could_ brew these, right, Pomona?"

"Certainly!"

"There you go. Who needs to know how to brew the draught of the living death at age eleven?! Really, if you had to see the kinds of things _I_ have to treat as a result of _your_ lessons, instead of just whisking them off to the hospital wing and never checking up on them . . . why not consider teaching potions that the students actually ask about?"

"She does have a point, Severus," chimed in Dumbledore. "We can't get so set in our ways that we resist positive innovations, and you shouldn't underestimate the value of inherently interesting subject matter. We _are_ a school of magic, after all—no sense denying that we can have fun with it, too."

Flitwick, looking back and forth, asked "Albus, what is this about, anyway?"

"Oh, I haven't the foggiest idea! I do need to keep up appearances as a meddling old wizard, after all, and besides, it's always fascinating to see what happens when I weigh in on topics about which I know nothing whatsoever."

"May we all be such _honest_ meddling old wizards. So, Severus, are you going to explain what it is that you are so uncomfortable about, or shall we have Pomona and Minerva do it?"

"Very well. But let me be clear at the outset that I have _no intention_ of including this in my curriculum. And, Albus, I also suggested she go ask you, but perhaps you were . . . more intimidating, since I can't imagine she doubted your knowledge of such a truly important topic as breast-enlarging potions."

Pomona smiled sweetly. "It _is_ noisy in here, you know, and I don't think Hagrid and Septima could hear you down at the far end of the table. Perhaps you could speak up?"

"No."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dislike the way all that italics looks, but the characters talk like that in my mind's ear. I'm leaving it as is for now and will try to make a learning experience out of it.


	27. Silvanus Kettleburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the title says. I don't think I've ever seen fanfic about this character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 27: Silvanus Kettleburn

 

Wednesday, November 7, 1990

 

"Good afternoon, class."

Charlie knew the drill. Professor Kettleburn would not move on—would, in fact, wait patiently for an uncomfortably long time before trying again—if the class did not respond with the expected answer.

"Good afternoon, Professor Kettleburn."

The Care of Magical Creatures classroom, or at least the current one, as Kettleburn had been through several over the years, was a fairly simple affair. Typical castle architecture—arched windows, slightly vaulted ceiling. Polished stone floor, easily cleaned. Rows of desks in the front, counters in the back. No bookcases, no curtains, no fancy teacher's desk. In short, nothing that could burn or shatter too badly.

The desks had some wood in them, but were protected with powerful enchantments against burning or breaking. They were not protected very well against scratching, chewing, chemical marking, or other less pleasant accidents. The walls were covered in scattered stains and scorch-marks, stone counters were chipped, and the castle's natural air freshening charms had long ago lost their struggle against the musk, urine, blood, vomit, venom, ichor, and alarm pheromones left by the five hundred and seventy three species of magical creatures which Professor Kettleburn had brought in here over the years. Today he was introducing the five hundred and seventy fourth, ostensibly because it was native to the Forbidden Forest, and in reality because he was on probation as a result of the poor behavior of the five hundred seventy second.

Charlie assumed this meant Kettleburn would be going with something small and harmless, or at least that looked small and harmless if you didn't scare it too badly, or maybe when it was sleeping. The large wire cage on the front table appeared to be empty save for a piece of tree branch and some newspaper, so Charlie was betting on 'escaped and in the room somewhere' or 'harmless-looking because it is invisible'. He was hoping for the latter, as it would be, for Kettleburn, a novel and creative way to dodge the terms of his probation. He was also hoping it wasn't the former, because that usually ended badly, both for the students and the magical creature.

Another puzzling thing was the presence of Professor McGonagall, sitting in the front row of desks. He had been led to understand that in the early years of Professor Kettleburn's tenure, 'probation' had sometimes involved having an actual classroom monitor keep an eye on him, but that had been given up as pointless long before Charlie had gotten to Hogwarts. Dumbledore probably wasn't even bothering with a stern lecture; Charlie got the feeling that much of the headmaster's duties involved exceedingly dull paperwork, and that dealing with Kettleburn's various accidents had turned into one of those near-mindless tasks like, say, double-checking the budget, or ordering supplies, that he probably strove to complete and file away as quickly as possible. In any case, McGonagall's expression was a poor clue to what she was thinking, so he would have to just wait and see.

Kettleburn himself was known for having 'one and a half limbs', but this was a little misleading, as magical artificial arms and legs had gotten quite good over the years, and Kettleburn had collected some very nice ones. Since the man was rarely without sturdy robes and long dragonhide gloves, Charlie had never been able to confirm the rumors that Kettleburn wore a different right arm every day of the week. What was obvious, though, immediately upon meeting the professor, was that he had quite a few scars on his face. Most wizards Kettleburn's age—he was probably the second-oldest faculty member after Dumbledore—would have hidden these by growing a beard. It wasn't actually that beards were easily burned off that deterred him, Kettleburn had said, but that they were far too inviting to cling to or hide in.

 

"Legend has it—and by that I mean that the original manuscript was destroyed in a fire—legend has it that while the foundation of Hogwarts was being laid, Helga Hufflepuff made a catalog of every living thing she found on the school grounds. All we have of that work are numerous citations to it from the era when there were extant copies. Our venerated founder may have been quite thorough, but if the citations are any guide, she probably missed some things. Like this little guy here.

What, you don't see him either? We shouldn't be too hard on our tenth-century predecessors if he eluded them, too. He's right in plain view on that branch! Not invisible at all!" The branch in question was about four inches in diameter and three feet long, leaning diagonally against the side of the cage. It was brown and had deeply furrowed bark, but Charlie couldn't see anything special about it. " _I_ can see him, but then I know where he is already and I'm a little closer. Of course, it would help if he'd open his eyes. They're nocturnal, so he's probably hoping we'll just go away and let him sleep, but I know how to get his attention."

Kettleburn reached into his robes and pulled out a banana. "No one knows what they eat in the wild, since they're so elusive. I must have tried a hundred things from the forest and a dozen formulations from Diagon Alley, trying to get him to eat. Finally I gave in and started bringing up food from the Great Hall. So all I know is that he'll nibble on acorns, but he _loves_ bananas. So far as I know there is nothing remotely like a banana tree growing anywhere in the Forbidden Forest, but he seems healthy, and I can train him this way. Let's see . . ." He peeled part of the banana, broke off a small piece, then stuffed the rest back in his pocket.

As he opened the cage door, making clicking noises with his tongue, part of the branch shimmered and moved, then jumped into Kettleburn's hand. It was like looking at a primitive form of disillusionment. The professor had the animal—which seemed to have four legs and a tail—crawling up his right arm towards a piece of banana he put on his shoulder. Kettleburn moved in front of the table now, as the piece of banana seemed to hover near his ear, rotating and growing smaller.

He walked slowly down each row of desks, as students stood up and peered at it, some reacting with various "Ooh!"s and the occasional "soo cuute!", others apparently not seeing it. When it came within ten feet or so of Charlie, he could finally see an eye—small, beady, and rodent-like, but large in proportion to the head once he could make it out. Using that as a reference point made the outline of a small mammal much clearer. "It's all in the fur," explained Kettleburn, "you are looking at the most sophisticated natural camouflage yet discovered—it can change color nearly instantaneously, and it accounts for the angle it's viewed from, too. If you have ever seen someone or something that had been disillusioned badly, you'll recognize the effect. The difference is that these guys evolved it on their own."

The animal had now climbed down to a second piece of banana in Kettleburn's left hand; Kettleburn handed off the rest of the banana to McGonagall with his right.

"Now, I'm going to do something a little mean in a moment, but I want you to actually see this guy. I'll clean him off right after, don't worry. This is just flour . . ."

Kettleburn took a small paper bag out of his pocket, and dumped the contents on the animal, now revealed to look very much like a flying squirrel. It indignantly shook itself like a wet dog, sending a cloud of flour into the air and becoming marginally less visible.

"If you were thinking it looks like a flying squirrel, you're right! Davey here is a chameleon glider, and they've only been found in two other places nearby, besides the Forbidden Forest. Before he manages to shake that all off, let's see him in action. Minerva?"

McGonagall stood, holding her arm out in front of her, palm up with a piece of banana in it.

"Just make that clicking noise I used—it seems to work on most animals."

"If this thing bites, Silvanus, you and it are in deep trouble."

"It's an endangered species, Minerva."

"Okay, then just you. tchk tchk tchk?"

"Go on, over there, see? She's got a banaaana . . ." Listening to Kettleburn talk to animals was always fascinating. Gone was any hint of professorial gruffness—replaced by something approaching baby-talk. It didn't matter what the size or the ferocity was—thestrals, hippogriffs, or venomous snakes got the same voice as cute little flying squirrels. He was worse than Hagrid.

McGonagall apparently got her clicking right, or at least Davey had finished the last piece of banana it could reach without flying, and it took off across the room, shedding flour as it went.

"Notice he flew horizontally, without climbing up to my head first like a regular flying squirrel would have to. They can go straight up, too. Now, Minerva, you agreed . . ."

Slowly, McGonagall used her free hand to reach into her pockets and came out with a wool scarf in a complicated tartan pattern, which she draped around her neck. Actually holding the little squirrel must have made it easier to make out, as she slowly grew less awkward and fearful, and started bringing it closer to herself to get a better look. Charlie decided he must be seeing her 'holding a small furry cute thing with big eyes and a piece of banana' expression; he'd certainly never seen it on her before.

Charlie had spent years speculating as to why Kettleburn did anything he did. Just like the man never mentioned it when he was on probation, he hadn't said why McGonagall was there; Charlie guessed Kettleburn had asked to borrow her scarf, but she didn't trust him with it, so they compromised.

"Now, when he finishes that chunk of banana, just hold him up to the scarf. It's easier to cling to than your hand, so he should climb right onto it. Goood!" Kettleburn had come over to stand at her side. "Now, let's get the rest of that flour off him and see how he does. 'Scourgify'!" Charlie was unsurprised to see the squirrel vanish away, perfectly mimicking the McGonagall tartan.

"You see," explained Kettleburn, "I've tried that on every color-changing animal I've gotten my hands on. The really good ones manage a bunch of lines of about the right colors, going every which-way. Davey here, though, seems to have pulled off plaid. I know, after seeing, or failing to see him, as I walked around the room, this might not impress you. I assure you, though, that nothing in the Forbidden Forest comes in plaid. So Davey can't just fool our eyes with some trick—he's got to get it exactly right." Kettleburn leaned in to get a closer look at the animal's fur, in the process bringing his face within about six inches of McGonagall's breasts. Charlie bit his cheeks to avoid grinning, and wondered why no one else seemed to find the scene humorous; it would be bad enough with an ordinary animal, he thought, but with a near-invisible one it was ridiculous. Charlie wished he had a camera, because Kettleburn looked extraordinarily pleased by what he saw.

"Oooh, he _has_ , hasn't he—every little color, all the right angles! It's amazing! Maybe _you_ all haven't been dying to see this your entire lives, but _I_ certainly have." At this, Charlie had to bite down so hard he was bleeding, but he didn't dare laugh.

"Eep!" Davey had crawled upward, and snuggled in between McGonagall's scarf and her neck, where it was presumably warmer and darker. She had reacted by standing very, very still; Davey, reassured by this, burrowed deeper into her clothing. As much as Charlie enjoyed watching Professor McGonagall react, he would be relieved when the squirrel was finally extricated from wherever it had gotten to.

It was little and cute, and Professor Kettleburn acted like it was completely tame. Unfortunately, Kettleburn's idea of 'tame' was less like 'I have spent many months carefully socializing this wild animal which I probably pulled out of a hole somewhere' and more like 'I know it likes bananas, and also I have named it "Davey".' This sort of situation was precisely how Kettleburn had gotten himself put on probation so often—everything he did today had _looked_ reasonable at the time, but it had ended with the subject of the day's lesson crawling down Professor McGonagall's shirt.

Care of Magical Creatures professors had been bringing things like dragons and hippogriffs into the classroom since the school's founding, and even Kettleburn had done so without incident. Those were big and dangerous, but their behavior was extremely well-understood. In contrast, Charlie wouldn't be surprised if the entirety of human knowledge concerning chameleon gliders had been imparted to him today. He would have felt honored by this if the next few minutes hadn't forced him to bite down so hard on his lip.

 

* * *

 

At the beginning of class, Charlie had planned to lurk around the corner outside of the classroom to try to eavesdrop on Kettleburn and McGonagall. He felt bad for the Care of Magical Creatures professor; he was a nice old man, and very knowledgeable, even if he proceeded with cheerful confidence to do things sane people would not. As it was, though, Charlie was bleeding far too much to ignore, and had to go straight to the hospital wing.

Over the last seven years, Madam Pomfrey had seen a lot of Charlie Weasley.

"Ah, Care of Magical Creatures class just ended, did it? What is it today? Venomous bite? Embedded quill? Head trauma? You don't seem to be bleeding . . ."

"Uh, Vadav Vovthrey, uh . . ."

"Sorry, my mistake. Let's take a look at it. I see you've decided to cut out the middleman and do the biting yourself now, hm?" She wandered over to her cabinet and selected something. "Can't wait to see me? Here, swish this around in your mouth until I say you can stop, but don't swallow any of it." The potion stung and tasted bitter.

"Did you bang your head on something?" Up to this point Charlie had been fixated on the thought that he was in serious pain, but the thought of actually explaining the situation to Madam Pomfrey was too much. He couldn't keep from laughing, and wound up spraying mouthwash everywhere to avoid choking on it.

"That good, huh? Here, take another mouthful, and I'll go to my office for a few minutes." Charlie managed to hold it in until she came back. "All still there? Good. Go spit it out in the sink. Now let's see . . . looks good. That cleaned and disinfected it, and stopped the bleeding, but it's going to take at least a few days to heal. So try not to accidentally bite it open again while you're eating." Charlie nodded.

"Right. Any other injuries you haven't told me about yet? No? Oh good. Now then, what happened?"

"I was . . . trying . . . to not lath at Prothessor McGonagall."

Madam Pomfrey smirked. "Believe it or not, I've heard that one before. Do go on. Oh, don't worry, I don't spill my patients' secrets unless somebody's in danger."

Charlie took a deep breath. "Prothessor Kettleburn had a magical thlying squirrel that changes colors, like a chameleon? And wanted to see it on plaid. McGonagall wouldn't lend him her tartan scarth . . ."

"Sensible."

"I guess she thought it would stay sather ith she was wearing it?"

"Ah, her first mistake." Pomfrey was grinning.

"So she puts the squirrel on it . . ." Charlie gestures toward his chest, demonstrating. "And Kettleburn leans in to see, but his head's right here . . . and the squirrel is invisible, so it . . . looks . . ."

"Ah."

"And he looks so, so happy . . . and then it . . ." He made his fingers scurry up his shirt and into his collar.

"Naturally!"

"And she stays stock still, but she squeaks!"

"Oh Merlin, I wish I could share this . . ."

"Just don't say it was me?"

"Deal."

"So, staying still was bad."

"Oh?"

"It must hathe thelt sathe then, and . . ." He put his hand down the front of his shirt. "And no one else looked like they were trying not to lath, either!"

"Of course. Where do you think Hogwarts professors and Ministry employees come from?"

He snickered. "And now it won't come out, and he's there . . . going 'tchk tchk!' at her . . ." He looked up at Madam Pomfrey, who was silently evaluating the possibility of doing this herself at the faculty table. Charlie raised a finger in an 'it gets better' gesture; Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. "Kettleburn has to take oth his glothe . . . and he just reaches in to get it . . ." He made the motion of having to fish around, and struggle to pull it out. "I don't think either oth them realized how it looked."

"Well, you never can tell with Minerva. She's very good in that sort of situation."

"Does she . . . I better not say that."

" _I_ will, though! Does Minerva McGonagall get groped often?" Charlie looked shocked. "No. I bet that was a first for her. Don't tell her I said that, of course. Alright, you—if those cuts start to feel worse, or if they aren't better in a week, come see me again. Of course, you'll probably be in here for something else before that, so I suppose I'll just check it then."

 

* * *

 

That evening, Charlie was in the library, working on the project Kettleburn had assigned them. It was actually a pretty clever one.

"Now," the professor had said, as if he had not just pulled a flying squirrel out of Professor McGonagall's cleavage, "your next written assignment is due Friday the 16th, and you will need the library for most of it, so don't put it off." He gave them a stern look. "I want you to pin down when these guys first came flying out of the woods, so to speak. Find the account of that if you can, and then look in the reference works before and after that. Along the way, pick at least two other British magical creatures that turn up in, or disappear from, the references at some identifiable time. Hagrid's escaped pets don't count!" Laughter from the class. "I want at least five feet of analysis on this. Compare and contrast; see how magizoologists handle changes in knowledge. Write about what you find interesting. You can work together on finding books in the library, and I think you would be foolish not to, but the actual reading, writing, and thinking must be your own." Another stern look. "It's a good excuse to use the Hogwarts history section, which is way up on the front wall, so you'll get to climb around on those rolling ladders! Any questions? Great. Come to my office hours if you get stuck, and I'll see you tomorrow!"

Charlie and several others were now at the tops of ladders, sifting through promising looking books and handing them down to classmates below. There were several large stacks of reference works on the nearest table. Many were similar to 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them'—clearly in the "Bestiary" genre of which wizards were very fond. Most, though, were considerably drier, if not more systematic, and had titles like 'The Illustrated Fauna of the Hogwarts Grounds', 'Centennial Gamekeeper's Report', and 'Bewick's Birds of Magical Britain'. Wizards rarely published books with tables of contents, let alone indexes. Charlie had a sinking feeling that the assignment would take all the time Kettleburn had allotted for it.

 

* * *

 

Oren was in his usual seat at the back of the library. Two things were distracting him. The first was the presence of Albus Dumbledore, rustling around in the Restricted Section next to him. The second was the large number of students climbing around on the library's front wall, a section he didn't remember getting much attention before.

Dumbledore had been in here last night after dinner, too. Fortunately, regardless of what he was after, the Restricted Section would probably have only a limited number of books on the subject, and he could be expected to go away reasonably soon. Oren didn't think much of the Restricted Section. By his calculation, there couldn't be more than 20,000 volumes in there, and once you discounted certain things in foreign languages and ordinary stuff like polyjuice, the actual number of books on supposed 'Dark Arts' was fairly small. The average pureblood household probably had a larger collection, at least if you counted all the stuff stored in boxes that no one had looked at in years. So Oren assumed faculty members (or at least the ones who, like Dumbledore, were always up to something) must take trips to other libraries on a regular basis.

Oren didn't really like being so close to Dumbledore, and eventually decided to give up on studying for the night. On his way out he asked the students in the front what they were working on, and learned about Kettleburn's research assignment. This was the first Oren had heard of the Hogwarts-specific section. The various surveys of the grounds were high up on the wall, but the shelf at his eye level contained mostly history. Scanning these, he came across 'Recapturing Their Youth', which was a sufficiently opaque title that he took it out. It turned out to be a history of how Hogwarts had influenced architecture elsewhere, with whole chapters on various universities—he noticed Oxford, Yale, The University of Chicago, and several others. It also had an entire chapter on libraries, which was interesting enough for Oren to walk back to a table and sit down.

He had acquired a near-pathological aversion to checking out books, for fear that doing anything out of the ordinary would give him away. That in itself was odd, since he had checked out all sorts of suspicious-sounding things his first time around, but on the other hand he spent an awful lot of time in the library anyway. During all that time, though, he never noticed any sort of door to the archives room that the book talked about. It made sense, he thought, that such a place should exist (although making sense rarely predicted whether wizards would actually do something); it was what _he_ would do, at any rate.

Paperwork, gradebooks, general history—after a thousand years, keeping it all in various storerooms would get awkward, and the founders had usually displayed a lot of foresight about that sort of thing. His immediate interest, of course, was dealing with all the papers in The Room of Hidden Things. Why should he bother trying to fireproof one of the most magically confusing rooms ever built, when an archive room already existed, quite possibly designed by Rowena Ravenclaw herself? As best as he could tell from the chapter, the Hogwarts librarian was responsible for it, and had some sort of special powers. That sounded reassuring. Yes, he'd pull out anything he wanted, and take the rest to Madam Pince. Or, maybe, break into her office and leave it there—that was probably more sensible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first section without realizing some bits would look questionable to an observer, and then went back and added Charlie's perspective. In Kettleburn's place, I, too, would have been oblivious.
> 
> I wasn't originally planning to write out the section in the hospital wing, but rather expected to simply end that thread with the class ending, then fill out the rest of the details at the faculty table at dinner. I decided to make it more like the chapter with Sirius' hearing, where I deliberately wrote out a whole lot more than I usually would. On the one hand, this is fanfiction, and not intended to be formatted like a novel or at the pace of a novel. So there is the luxury to drill down into the details of the world as much as I like. On the other hand, there has to be something worthwhile to be wrung out of any given scene -- I'm scared of falling into the "What Harry Had for Breakfast" school of fanfic. (In this case, after re-reading the chapter, I'm very glad I did it this way. I think Madam Pomfrey might be the most consistently funny character so far for me.)
> 
> Another problem, in terms of putting together a narrative, is that if you want to have multiple things happening simultaneously that aren't closely related quite yet, you can either skip from scene to scene, or go forward for a while continuously and then back up.
> 
>  
> 
> Stupid navel-gazing aside, between this and the greenhouse scene, you can probably tell what kind of material I feel most at home writing. Hint: it is not dialogue or internal monologue, even though those are most of the story so far.


	28. Notes and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the title says. Short scenes and letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 28: Notes and Conversations

 

Friday, November 9, 1990. Early Morning.

 

Fred and George were on the far end of the lake, practicing the exercises Dumbledore had set out for them. Or, rather, they were practicing their own modifications of them, which was why they were trying not to be seen. At the moment they were both maintaining a 'lumos' while casting freezing charms on the surface of the lake. They weren't powerful enough to do anything dramatic in one go, but repeated application of the spell had sent a sheet of ice creeping out at least twenty feet from them, and some unknown distance down.

A voice came from behind them. "Can't wait to go skating?"

They jumped, turning around to see Professor Eeles smiling at them.

"Not at all! Good morning, Professor."

"George, how is we let people sneak up on us like that all the time. Did you hear him coming?"

 

"Hi there. What are you boys up to?"

 

"Trying to use more than one spell at a time. It's an exercise . . ."

". . . that Dumbledore gave us when we asked how he did everything at once during that food fight."

 

"So he told you to freeze the lake, did he?"

 

"Oh no, we did that on our own . . ."

". . . because we got bored."

 

"So what brings you down here then?"

 

The twins looked at each other, frustrated. "You see, . . ."

". . . we find that pretty much no matter what we do . . ."

". . . sooner or later we get in trouble for it."

"So we come down here sometimes to stay out of sight."

 

"Do the lake monsters ever give you any trouble?"

 

"What, the squid?"

"Isn't it too shallow over here?"

 

"I understand there are quite a lot of different things living down there besides your squid, but if they haven't objected yet, I suppose you're safe for now. You know, I've been sneaking exercises like this into my upper level classes—get them to maintain a shield and shoot curses at the same time. It's a damn useful skill, and not just for fighting. Come on, let's see what you can do."

 

The twins shrugged. It was better than getting in trouble! "See, we can maintain a 'lumos' like so . . ."

". . . and cast single spells like the freezing charm."

"Or we can handle the lumos, annnnd, there, a hover charm, and nothing else."

 

"Humor me, would you? Try the basic shield charm, each of you." Eeles hovered a few pebbles at them to check. "Good. Can you do the lumos with those, too?" They could. "Excellent. I see you flew over here on your brooms—I suppose you couldn't have gotten here yet by walking without breaking curfew?" They nodded. "Good thinking. Go fetch your brooms and walk with me the rest of the way back to the castle, and I'll see if I can help you with this."

After verifying that the twins could both walk and fly while maintaining two spells, he had them switch back to the hover charm and hold a rock out in front of them. "Good. Now, the lumos?" Eeles took out his own wand and started nudging their rocks around, eventually finding the point at which their light spells went out. "Great! That looks like it's just a concentration problem. Now try the shield charm with the hover . . . a little trickier, but you got it. Good, good." They proceeded the rest of the way with Eeles trying to create magical distractions for them, although that might not have been necessary given the distractions of trying to carry on a conversation.

"So, Professor, if you don't mind us asking, we were wondering how Dumbledore found you."

"Are you really from New Zealand?"

 

"Oh, originally, although I've lived a bunch of different places. If you can't place my accent that's why. As to the job, your headmaster actually advertised it in every wizarding publication he could find. I'd been at the same dragon reserve in the Congo for four years, got bored, and applied here on a lark. Turns out I was the only one who applied. It was only when I found out the position was cursed that I insisted on a one-year contract."

 

"Huh. I thought everyone knew about that curse."

 

"Well, I suppose everyone in Britain who has some Hogwarts affiliation might know, but why would anyone else?"

 

"Oh, right, the world doesn't revolve around Hogwarts!"

"We'd surely forget if you didn't keep reminding us!"

 

"Ha! If it makes you feel any better, a lot of wizarding communities live pretty isolated lives. Americans are far worse about remembering the rest of the world exists!"

 

"So were you a gamekeeper?"

"How did you go from that to a defense professor?"

 

"Well, sometimes that was my title, technically, yes. I never did anything with actual animals besides avoiding them, though—it was all just hunting down poachers."

 

"Ohhhhh."

"So it's like hiring an auror as a teacher, then?"

 

"More or less, if your aurors worked only in mountains and jungles and such, protected dragons instead of people, and didn't care about capturing anybody or bringing them to trial. I guess it's more akin to a military than law enforcement role. Hm. It's also not the kind of job where you need to worry about that kind of distinction much. There's just you, the poachers, and the dragons, and so long as the dragons are safe at the end of the day, you've done your job, and your employer doesn't care how you did it."

 

"Does Dumbledore seem to care much how you do this one?"

 

"Not so far as I can tell, no. Not really."

 

* * *

 

Amycus Carrow arranged the five sacrificed pheasants in a ring and drew the markings for the pointing spell in their blood. Dumbledore had done a good job hiding the Potter brat's muggle relatives—good enough that finding their house directly was impossible with magic. But they had to leave the house sometimes, and that was good enough that he had narrowed things down to a few towns in Surrey. He had their photos from the _Prophet_. It was just a matter of repeating the spell and triangulating inwards.

 

* * *

 

Sybill had received a letter from Mr. Malfoy. It was not what she had been expecting.

 

\--------------

 

Dear Professor Trelawney,

I apologize if my attempt to reach you on Tuesday gave the wrong impression. Severus wisely pointed out to me that your recent experience in teaching extispicy had been somewhat controversial, and that you might have misinterpreted my visit. Your colleague Erasmus had sent me to see you, after mysteriously complimenting your teaching methods while refusing to give details, and I fear that, out of habit, I adopted a demeanor appropriate only for dealing with the Ministry.

I am impressed by the innovative way in which you made a traditional subject accessible to modern students, and I congratulate you on your success. I myself took only a year of Divination while I was at Hogwarts, and wisely dropped it after realizing I had no gift for it, but the Malfoy library has a respectable collection on the topic. After perusing those, it became immediately obvious that the current Hogwarts curriculum bears little resemblance to Divination as our ancestors practiced it.

I hope you will continue to experiment with bringing back traditional magical practices. If there is any way that I might be of assistance to you in this respect, please do let me know. In fact, I encourage you to contact me, as the Board of Governors may directly allocate funding to worthy projects, and I would personally enjoy hearing your ideas for further innovations.

 

Sincerely,

Lucius Malfoy

\-------------------------------------

 

She wondered whether to ask Dumbledore for advice. Was there some subtext to this letter that she was missing? She very much wanted to stay out of any sort of trouble, and that included politics. Nevertheless, the idea of having Lucius Malfoy throw money at her was intriguing. Managing him while maintaining her persona would be extremely tricky, but not actually impossible. For now, she'd think about it.

 

* * *

 

"So how are you coming on the Gryffindor benches?"

"Oh, yeah, Oren—how's that going?"

Oren, Erwin, and Bernard were in the common room, sitting in chairs Oren had been assured were safe.

"I finished that a while ago, but I can't tell if it's working, since their table is on the far side of the room. It's kind of frustrating. I can't exactly go ask them for feedback!"

"Heh. What did you wind up doing?"

"Something insanely complicated. That's one of the reasons it's hard to tell if it's working." He grinned. "I put in lots of things that only happened on certain days or on certain benches, to make it harder for anyone to notice."

"But that makes it harder for us to notice, too?"

"Yeah. So what happened with the chairs in the common room?"

Erwin shrugged. "I don't really know. People sit in them less often, as far as we can tell."

Oren expected something like that, but hadn't been sure Bernard and Erwin would accept it on their own. "That doesn't sound like it's a very good prank, then. This is why I made the spells on the benches do a lot of different things. Could we just call this a loss and take the papers off the chairs?"

Bernard had a moment of looking glum, then asked "So what should we do instead?"

"For starters, find a way to target Fred and George? Or the Gryffindors?"

"Yeah, yeah. But how?"

"You figure it out! Unlike you, I don't have some inner drive to pull pranks. I just don't care the way you do. So you ought to be better at coming up with them than me."

"So what _do_ you care about, then."

Oren asked himself that question all the time. It was a pretty good one. "Uhh, lots of things. Like, with pranks, once you came up with something, I'd care about whether you pulled it off competently. I don't like watching people do stuff wrong."

"You're weird."

Fine, thought Oren, as he pointedly turned his attention back to homework. The three boys were pretty used to conversations ending that way, often with those same two words.

 

* * *

 

Tonks read the letter from Sirius back in her room, not wanting to open it at the table.

 

\----------------------

 

Dear Dora,

You drive a hard bargain! As of Thursday, I am registered with the Ministry, so you can relax. The clerk said no one ever really looks at the archives, so unless it becomes publicly known some other way, it's unlikely that my secret is much less secret. So that's a relief.

I found an occlumency tutor who seems trustworthy enough—I'll be meeting with him several times a week. He has no idea how long it might take me, given that my mind is still pretty messed up. Well, differently than it was before I went to Azkaban, at least.

I'm still holding off on seeing anyone else, and I haven't bought a wand yet, but I've certainly spent some time out shopping. The owl who delivered this is new—I'm still trying to decide on a name for her. I went with the great grey in case I need her to carry packages, although the clerk at Eeylops says I should go higher than ten pounds.

The house is still a mess. I have no idea what Kreacher has been doing all these years. I think maybe house elves go insane if they are left alone for too long; humans certainly would.

I'm looking forward to seeing you next Hogsmeade weekend. That's the 24th, right?

yours truly,

Sirius

 

\-----------------------------------


	29. The Fourth Estate Comes to Little Whinging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rita finds Dudley at the playground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 29: The Fourth Estate Comes to Little Whinging

 

Friday, November 16, 1990

 

The playground in Little Whinging was small. It had a set of four swings, a slide, and a fairly simple climbing gym built out of splinter-prone wood. Parents rarely brought their children there, which left it to be dominated by Dudley and his friends. Harry had rarely played here, both because of the potential need to run from his cousin at a moment's notice, and because wandering around the neighborhood was slightly more interesting than playground equipment.

Dudley liked the swings well enough, although he didn't like going too high on them. This afternoon he was alone, his friends off doing things with their families. He had homework, but it would get put off until Sunday night when he would remember it and make his parents do most of it.

As he was swinging, he watched a woman coming around the corner towards the playground. She was neatly dressed, although something seemed off about it, and was looking at a piece of paper. When she saw him she smiled, then started walking towards the playground.

"Would you be Dudley Dursley? Yes? Excellent. I've been looking forward to meeting you for some time. Let me introduce myself—I'm Rita Skeeter, and I'm a newspaper reporter. I was hoping you would be willing to talk to me about your cousin Harry Potter."

"What, the freak? We haven't seen him since the summer, when he went off to live somewhere else."

She smiled sweetly. "Dudley, your cousin has made the news elsewhere, and I'm trying to write a story about him. It would help me so much if you could tell me more about Harry—his quirks, personality, little habits—things only a family member would know?"

Dudley considered this. In the past, anyone showing an unusual interest in Harry usually resulted in his parents getting upset and dragging him away. As spoiled as he was, he didn't really want to get his father mad at him. On the other hand, he wouldn't stay in trouble long, so what harm could it do?

"Um, are you one of his people—the ones he went to live with?" Dudley didn't know what that meant; it was just what his parents said.

"Hm? I prefer to think of myself first and foremost as a member of the press, but if you're asking who would read the paper I work for, yes, for the kinds of people who know who Harry is, it has the widest circulation in Britain. Really, Dudley, please think of me the way you would any other news reporter looking for a story. I'm here to bring the truth to my readers, and that has a magic all its own, does it not?"

Dudley just raised his eyebrows, confused.

"So, what was it like living with the famous Harry Potter? Did he get lots of mail? Were you chasing visitors away? Were you jealous of him?"

"Uh, he never got any mail. There was only that one visitor—this girl with pink hair—who showed up the day before we last saw him. Sometimes people tried to talk to him in stores and stuff, but my parents tried to keep them away."

"Ah, protecting him from the perils of celebrity, or keeping him from his fans?"

"They said they didn't want him . . . associating with other freaks."

"Would you say they are prejudiced, then?"

"What does that mean?"

Rita sighed. This was going to be a rewarding day, but very long and frustrating nevertheless. She hated interviewing kids.

"Would you say they hate magic?"

"I guess . . . what does that have to do with Harry?"

"Surely you know, don't you?"

"Know what?"

Rita now grasped that no one had ever explained to Dudley that Harry was a wizard, or that magic existed. Of course, since he was a close enough blood relative, the Statute of Secrecy didn't apply. He was also a muggle, so no one would fuss at her too much about what she did with him. Rita decided she was free to have fun with this.

"What do you know about magic, Dudley?"

"What do you mean?"

"About, you know, witches and wizards. As your parents would say, 'Harry's people'."

Dudley laughed. "Harry can't do magic! What are you talking about?"

"You never saw anything happen around him that you couldn't explain?"

"Sure, all the time . . ." Dudley stopped short, thinking of all the inexplicable things Harry had gotten in trouble for. "Can _you_ do magic?"

"Of course! But really, please think of me as just a reporter."

"Will you show me?" He was all eagerness. It was really unpleasant-looking.

She sighed dramatically. "Well, I can't do it _here_ , you know, someone might see. You're only allowed to know about it because you're related to Harry." She waited for that to sink in—she really could get in trouble if she was reckless with the Statute of Secrecy. "How about this," she leaned in conspiratorially, "if you give me an interview—a good, detailed interview about Harry, where you don't hold aaaanything back—aaand, if you agree to keep your mouth shut and behave yourself, you can come back with me to my office afterwards, and you can see all sorts of magic." And, she mentally added, we'll get your photo, too.

Dudley might have once been taught something about how he was supposed to act around strangers, but he never really payed any attention to it. "All right!" he shouted.

 

* * *

 

Miss Tonks looked absolutely terrified to be called into the Headmaster's office. He wondered whether she had done something that might get her in trouble. His eyes twinkled. "Ah, Miss Tonks, I think I've seen you in here a few times over the years. Do have a seat." Occlumency barriers! A few students always had paranoid parents, but he couldn't imagine what Ted and Andromeda were scared of. Oh well, whatever she thought she was in trouble for was unlikely to be _too_ bad, since he hadn't discovered it on his own yet, and anyway students panicked over the littlest things.

"Now, if you didn't look so scared, I'd draw out the reason for calling you here, just to tease you. But I'm very careful about teasing students! So you should know you're not in trouble." He gave a slightly grandfatherly smile, and made a gesture of dismissal. "Do you recall your question to various professors a few weeks ago?" Tonks nodded, clearly relieved. "You know, I don't think I have seen Severus that embarrassed since I hired him."

"Professor McGonagall put me up to it!"

"Oh, yes, I know, she was very proud of that. Good job, too, on your part, whatever it was you said to him!"

"Thanks, I think?"

"Nevertheless, I have two reasons for calling you in here, both related to that question. The first is that Severus tried to send you on to both your head of house _and_ to me." He paused, just enough to worry her a little. "Yet I never saw you in here! Miss Tonks,"

"I thought you would be really busy, and I knew Snape wasn't serious!"

"Yes, but you clearly grasped that you had run across a truly interesting question which at least _some_ of your professors would enjoy being asked. I know Pomona had great fun imparting her knowledge of the subject to us at the faculty table." Tonks was trying not to laugh. That was good, he supposed, for her to hide it—he needed to be at least slightly intimidating to the average student. "Now, I realize that students might find me somewhat intimidating. Why that should be, I certainly don't know . . ." He pointedly looked at his purple robes with the pink polka dots on them. "But I would still have enjoyed having you come to me in the first place, and I'm sorry that I haven't made myself as approachable as I might hope to be." Apologizing for things like that was always good for making students feel guilty; almost no one actually wanted to hurt the feelings of the grandfatherly old Headmaster.

"So, next time you have such a good excuse to come see me, young lady, I expect you to do it." He peered over his glasses. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Headmaster! I'm sorry. I just didn't want to bother you, is all."

"Why don't you let _me_ be the judge of whether I'm too busy to see you or not?"

"I can do that." She looked sheepish.

"Well, that's settled, then. On to the really interesting bit, which is to say, what I discovered when I pretended you had actually come to see me the way you should have. And the answer to your question, as best as I am able to tell, is that there is no safe way for a witch to permanently alter the size of her breasts, but there are in fact many extremely dangerous methods which you should dissuade your friends from considering."

He proceeded to describe five different rituals he had found, in just enough detail for Tonks to recognize them should she hear about someone attempting them. At least two fell clearly into the 'Dark Arts' category and the other three were definitely borderline.

(As to the temporary-effect potions Professor Sprout mentioned, wizards had no real concept of 'long term safety', or if they did, it wasn't something they worried much about; the fact that you could take a potion a few times without persistent side effects was usually good enough, even if the Madam Pomfreys of the world disapproved vigorously.)

 

* * *

 

When Dumbledore suggested it was time to head to dinner, he didn't bother looking around his office. He would have discovered, had he not been engrossed in describing his research, that a whirling silver rod on his windowsill had reversed direction, the glowing fluid in a glass ball had changed from blue to orange, and a clockwork turtle had poked its head out of its shell and was moving it back and forth.

Dumbledore was very fond of using little devices to convey information from various wards and monitoring charms, and had he been a professor at a muggle design school and not at a school for wizards, he could probably have written a nice series of books about what he had learned. Unfortunately, one of the things he had not quite learned was that once your information is coming from hundreds of sources, and is getting conveyed through sixty or so different methods, even brilliant wizards have trouble keeping track of everything.

The rod, the ball, and the turtle represented information from the wards on Privet Drive, and, had he been paying attention, would have told him that at least two wizards had come onto the street, were now in the Dursleys' house, and had used magic there within the past twenty minutes. He would later blame his failure to notice all this on the lack of adequate sound effects in his various contraptions, and would spend several hours going around the room upgrading them with bells, chimes, whistles, clicks, honks, grunts, and screeches. For now, he escorted Tonks to dinner, still talking animatedly about dark rituals for cosmetic body modification.

 

* * *

 

For all that his occasional errors embarrassed him, ordinarily Albus Dumbledore deserved his reputation as one of the most competent wizards in history. He noticed the changed devices immediately upon returning to his office two hours later. This is why, at 8 PM, Vernon Dursley answered the door to find an old, worried man with a long white beard, wearing purple robes with pink polka dots and a tall, pointy, bright orange hat.

Vernon narrowed his eyes. "You're the one from before. When that boy left. What do you want?"

"Ah, Mr. Dursley. Good. Did you have any unusual visitors today?"

"Why should I tell you?"

Albus was not used to getting this response. "Well, I suppose because it might be important for your own safety."

"Hmph. If that's all, then we're all fine. Nothing to see here!"

Vernon moved to close the door, but the old man stepped forward surprisingly quickly to stop him. "I really do wish to know who visited you and why. You might not understand what kinds of threats you could be facing."

"Look, I don't want your help. I don't know you, but from the way you're dressed I don't see where you get off deciding which of your kind I ought to be worried about."

They went on in this vein, Dumbledore's eyes twinkling. He kept Vernon talking for a few minutes and was able to learn all he needed to before disappearing into the night. What he learned worried him.

The entire Dursley family had spoken with Rita Skeeter and one of her photographers for a multi-hour interview. Skeeter, who had paid them £2000 for their information about Harry, had made a very good impression. Vernon and Petunia had even invited both Skeeter and the photographer to stay for dinner—the two hadn't left until shortly before Dumbledore got there.

As far as Dumbledore could tell, Skeeter had mostly gotten the truth from them, too, with Vernon only bothering to hide the cupboard-under-the-stairs business. He had to admit—Skeeter was good at her job, sitting there cheerfully transcribing Vernon's vitriol regarding magic, encouraging him to go on, reassuring him that she was "just a journalist, like any other". Money and a good first impression were worth an awful lot of veritaserum, it seemed.

Wizards rarely got worked up about specific muggles, and Albus didn't remember the _Prophet_ ever running a large expose on one. It would certainly be nice if all of wizarding Britain were to say 'tsk tsk, poor Harry' over their morning papers and forget about them by noon. It might happen.

There would probably be some calls to put the Dursleys on trial for child abuse. Amelia had shown little interest in prosecuting them so far, but political pressure could force her to act. A trial, though—especially a highly publicised one—was not an acceptable option for Dumbledore, not only because of the spectre of throwing muggles into Azkaban, but because it would draw too much attention to his own role in things. As to Harry, the article itself would cause long-term problems for the boy as it was—a trial had the potential to make things much worse.

Even assuming a trial was avoided, the options in the event of a hostile public reaction looked bleak—the fidelius charm isn't useful for hiding an address once it has been printed twenty thousand times in the lead article of a major newspaper. Harry might have been safe here from Death Eaters while the blood wards were up, but it was not so simple to protect the Dursleys from everything wizards might try once they read the article. All but the strongest conventional wards would eventually fall to a determined attacker, but normally the occupants would have plenty of time to prepare for a fight or get help. The Dursleys were in no position to fight, so that meant making sure they could get help.

Dumbledore was pretty sure Amelia wouldn't want to spare an auror to deal with a steady stream of lunatics and vigilantes, especially given the problems with letting the Dursleys go anywhere outside of the house. Heck, there was no reason to think most aurors wouldn't just turn a blind eye, when it came down to it.

Back in his office, sitting in front of the fire, he toyed with the idea of just making the Dursleys disappear somehow—give them new identities, move them to America, obliviate the neighbors, that sort of thing. Everyone would assume he had been the one to do it, though. In the end he flooed Amelia to tip her off about the article, then went to bed. He probably had a few days to think about it, before it came out. Maybe he would think of something brilliant in the morning.


	30. Hidden Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two looks at hidden parts of Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 30: Hidden Spaces

 

Saturday, November 17, 1990

 

Irma Pince arrived in her office at 9 AM sharp. Normally the library opened at 8, but she slept in on Saturdays and took a leisurely breakfast.

This morning her ordinarily-tidy office was packed to the ceiling with wooden crates, trunks, suitcases, and some muggle cardboard boxes. It was done neatly, so far as that was possible—nothing was precarious, waiting to fall on her. In all of the containers she could see into, there was paper. It had been more or less tossed in—mixing together bits from different eras—she saw scrolls, parchments, notebooks, binders, and few old textbooks. The room now smelled of dust and mildew, which might have merely annoyed a regular person, but was extremely upsetting to a librarian.

There was a note on her desk.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Dear Madam Pince,

I found the documents in these boxes while I was exploring the castle. Many of them are probably historically valuable, and I think they were a fire hazard in the places where I found them. I respectfully request that you evaluate them for inclusion in the Hogwarts archives.

I apologize for breaking into your office to leave them for you, but I didn't want to get in trouble if it turned out I went somewhere I shouldn't have. Don't worry, I didn't touch anything else in here.

I really am sorry for handing this off to you, but I didn't know what else to do!

Sincerely,

an anonymous student

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It wasn't actually easy to break into the Librarian's office, and, in fact, so far as Madam Pince knew, no one had ever done it before. A simple _alohamora_ wouldn't do it, nor would picking the lock. Whoever had done this had carefully gotten past the lock and locking charms without damaging either, stacked the boxes as neatly as she could have managed herself, and then relocked it all upon leaving—all without getting caught by patrolling staff members or prefects. She wasn't sure whether she should feel worried or reassured.

There was, in fact, a priceless artifact in here, in the form of a carved wooden staff leaning in the corner, although only there were only four people living who knew what it was. The Librarian's Staff had been created by Rowena Ravenclaw herself, and it acted as the key to the Hogwarts archives. She understood that it had formidable defenses of its own, and any would-be thief would be unable to take it peacefully or quietly. But there was always a risk with this sort of thing, and she decided to ask Albus about the locks on the door, once everything was safely stored away.

There was a second door to the office, which opened out behind her desk in the library itself. It was blocked by a wall of boxes. She was forced to go out to the hall, fetch a cart from the library, shrink the boxes one by one, and load them up. Taking the staff in one hand and moving the cart before her with her wand, she entered the library and locked all the doors.

She walked to the center of the room, and tapped the floor three times with the staff. With a deafening rush of scraping and clattering, the tables and chairs were pushed apart, leaving a wide space on the floor. She wheeled the cart to the center of it, and rapped three more times against the floor. A circle of light, about ten feet in diameter, appeared on the floor around her, and then there was a jolt as the floor dropped beneath her, accelerating downwards until it approached a speed rivaling the carts in Gringott's. The light from the library above was a distant speck when the floor started slowing, and was nearly invisible in the distance when it halted with a final bump.

A magical torch came on in front of her, and she rolled the cart out into the next room. The room was dome-shaped, and had been carved directly into the bedrock. On the far wall was a heavy iron door, set into an arch. The Hogwarts seal was etched onto it, large enough to cover the entire door. Irma stood before it and rapped the top of the staff against each of the four animals, then pressed her palm against the central 'H'. A faint vertical line of light spread outwards from her palm, splitting the door from top to bottom and growing in intensity. After the light had grown so bright that she needed to shield her eyes, the door split apart, its two halves sliding into the walls.

From here, the archives were essentially a catacombs. Near the entrance there were further iron doors leading to a workshop and several long, climate-controlled hallways with shelves set into the rock. Irma left the boxes, unshrunken, on a workbench, cast a few charms to keep the mildew from spreading, and returned to the surface. Dealing with the papers would take all her spare time for weeks, maybe months, but it was in fact part of her job description, and the anonymous student had worded his note carefully enough that she was obligated to do this even if she didn't want to.

The archives were designed to be one of the most secure places in Hogwarts, and a thousand years of librarians had ensured that they were never used for storing anything other than actual records and historically important documents, even if the threshold for "important" was exceedingly low. This minimized the temptation for pranksters, thieves, and dark lords to attempt a break-in — few, if any, of them would really want to get past Ravenclaw's traps just to steal a multi-thousand volume set of, say, the Headmaster's budget reports.

After she was first hired, when she was younger and less set in her ways, Irma had done considerable exploring down here. A final set of iron doors led out of the archives area itself, opening to a seemingly endless network of rough-hewn passageways. Several pre-carved halls were clustered near the door, obviously intended as additional archive space when some librarian thousands of years in the future finally ran out of space in the original rooms. Beyond that, it was a maze. She had walked for hours in it, unable to find either its outer limits or any apparent purpose.

There had been one initial scare where she was nearly lost, but she was methodical enough to prevent that from happening a second time. Careful chalk markings worked; she didn't dare trust a map, in case the catacombs of Hogwarts were as changeable as the castle itself. There would be no one to rescue her, if anything bad happened. Maybe the Headmaster himself would be allowed past the doors, if the castle decided it were necessary—she wasn't sure. Her predecessor had explained that if anyone other than the librarian attempted to enter the archives, they would be faced with the full power of Rowena Ravenclaw's deadly ingenuity at every step of the way. Given that Ravenclaw's idea of a dormitory "password" consisted of ever-changing riddles, Irma wasn't sure how well even an authorized rescuer would fare down here, where the founder had gone all-out on the security.

In theory, the catacombs of Hogwarts might contain hidden treasure, secret chambers, monsters, and so on. She had found no sign of anything other than miles of passageways, all alike. Her working theory was that whenever Ravenclaw had gotten tired of whatever she was supposed to be working on, she would come down here and enlarge the maze. Well, it was as good an explanation as any. In any case, Irma had eventually stopped going in there altogether; it was simultaneously dangerous and boring.

When the students started getting to her more than usual, and she had repaired one-too many damaged books that day and broken up one too many noisy gossip sessions, she liked to imagine there was some enormous magical corvid down here, sleeping through the centuries, waiting for the Heir of Ravenclaw to summon it, whereupon they would rise together and purge the school of children who didn't return their library books on time. She had even contemplated spreading that legend as a threat, but didn't think she could pull it off. Maybe some day she would forge an ancient-looking document.

Fantasies aside, she would have to go talk to the headmaster about this. She'd go see him after closing up tonight; talking at the faculty table about this wouldn't do. The story might spread and give people Ideas.

 

* * *

 

That evening, in another part of the castle, the Weasley twins were engaged in one of their favorite pastimes—trying to find parts of the castle not covered by the Marauder's Map. Today, they were in the dungeons, and after checking the map for an adequately deserted area, were going from door to door. Most were had unhelpful labels like "Storeroom", "Spare Classroom", "Empty", or just "?". The doors to these were invariably locked with magic, and after a few conversations with Charlie about wards, the twins were holding off on breaking into anything until they were more skilled.

 

"Surely the bathrooms won't be locked."

"That would just be cruel. Oh good!"

"It smells old."

"Like, dust and mildew, old?"

"No, more like cleaning products Filch doesn't use nowadays. I bet he doesn't have to come in here very often."

"Suppose it's haunted, like Myrtle's bathroom?"

"Don't know!" Then, louder, "Hey, is this bathroom haunted?"

They waited a moment.

"Guess not. So what's this grate in the wall?" A three-foot square metal grating was set into the wall on the far side of the stalls.

"Intriguing, is what it is. Clearly not a drain. There's a draft coming from it—cold air."

"Promising! Can we get it off?"

"Seems like it, with the right tool. Let's see . . ." Fred pulled out a pencil and transfigured it into a small steel prybar, which made quick work of the grate. He set it aside and looked down the hole.

"What do you see?"

"Darkness. _Lumos!_ It goes back about ten feet, then turns."

"Excellent! That's definitely not on the map."

Fred crouched down, crawling into the hole on his hands and knees. "So what does it show now?"

"It looks like you just walked through the wall. It's not showing the duct at all. So what's back there?"

"Looks like all the plumbing—pipes coming out, joining up, turning another corner about forty feet down. I'll go check it out. If it keeps going, I'll yell back, and you pull the grate back in place behind you and follow, okay?"

"Sure." The twins operated under the assumption that whatever they were doing—no matter how innocuous it seemed—was probably against the rules, and covered their tracks accordingly. They had long since given up on trying to figure out what they could actually get in trouble for, and now focused on not being observed in the first place.

"It keeps going! Come on!" George pulled the grate in place behind him, and was relieved to find it fit neatly.

A little further down the pipe joined up with another, which led down a similar passage leading, as best as they could tell from the map, to the corresponding girl's bathroom. They made a mental note to check for a grate there sometime, and kept following the main passageway.

"You know, these are only the incoming water pipes. The sewers must be somewhere else."

"Assuming there are any."

"Yeah, maybe it's like those stupid toilets the Ministry uses as an entrance."

"What, all the Hogwarts toilets are a gateway to somewhere else? I don't think I'm going to test that myself, thank you."

"Nor I."

"But I think we should spread the rumor that it works for some of them."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure Salazar Slytherin put the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets in a bathroom."

"Hah!"

Well over a hundred feet further on, and several turns later, Fred stopped. "What's this?"

"Hm?"

"Looks like it ends in a shaft. Straight up and down, as far as I can see."

"The pipe follows it?"

"Right."

"So can we climb it?"

"Maybe? Where are we on the map?"

"It looks like we're just in the walls still. There's an outer castle wall not far from here." George tried flipping between floors, trying to find a familiar landmark above them. "I think we're five floors under the Hospital Wing."

"I wonder if you can get out of here through any other bathrooms?"

"I don't know. Did you ever see a grate like that one?"

"I don't think so? So, maybe not?"

"If it just dead ends behind a bunch of bathrooms, that would be weird."

"Not if all your plumbers were house elves."

"Sure, I guess so. So which way?"

"What, you want to keep going?"

"Of course! Don't you?"

Fred stared down into the abyss. "If we go down, are we sure we can get back up?"

"Mental note: nick rope from somewhere. Well, what if we climb up a bit, and see how that goes, and if that's easy enough, then we go down . . ."

". . .because then we think we can get back up again?"

"Right. Actually, try chimneying down instead of messing with the pipe."

"This will do a number on our robes, you know."

"That's what repair charms are for. Want me to go first?"

"Nah, I can do it. Actually, stay up there for a while, so you can go get a rope if I need it. I'll call up when I see something."

Fred grabbed the pipe and leaned over to the far wall, then walked his legs onto the vertical surface of the shaft. Bracing himself with his back to one wall and feet to the other, he slowly started downwards. He had one hand on the pipe, and one on his wand, maintaining a _lumos_. "Can _lumos_ be learned wandlessly?" he yelled up.

"Maybe? Or you could just get a magical device to do it. Like one of dad's muggle torches."

"Let's look that up."

"Right."

George waited patiently, listening to the shuffling sound of his brother climbing. Fred had gotten more confident after the first twenty feet or so, and sounded like he was moving at a pretty decent clip. George assumed if anything went wrong, he'd be able to hear.

Fred yelled up. "There's another horizontal passage here—I'm maybe fifty feet down—and the shaft keeps on down, too. Pipe follows them both. Can't see the end of either. I'm continuing down!"

A few minutes later he yelled up again. "Okay, problem. The walls end, but the down doesn't. Which is to say the pipe goes down and around and disappears. I think there's a floor about thirty feet down . . . I'm going to try hanging from the pipe to see what's down here." George could no longer hear Fred moving. "Can you still hear me up there?"

"Loud and clear, brother o' mine! But only because the acoustics are good—nice echo!"

"I think you should come down. There are some big water tanks here, and we can climb over and get down from them, I think, but we won't be able to get back the same way! Am I even on the map still?"

"No! I'm still on it, but you're gone."

"Awesome! Come on, there are some normal-sized hallways head out from this room. I'm going to climb over to the cistern-thingy, or whatever it is."

"Alright, I'll be with you shortly. Where shortly is probably ten or fifteen minutes."

They both worked in silence for a while. George would have found the climb really annoying, and probably scary, if he hadn't been so curious to see what was at the other end. By the time he saw the pipe turn below him and disappear, he was too tired to go back up again any time soon. Fortunately, he also saw the light from his brother's wand coming from down below him. "Get down, did you?"

"Yeah, just slide down the pipe and go hand over hand. Put your wand in your pocket—my light should be enough."

"Sort of a leap of faith."

"More like a slide of faith."

"Sure. Okay, now what?"

"Just go hand over hand, like I said. Here, I'll hover charm you to help."

This in fact helped considerably. The twins were only 12, but they had enough power that Fred could make George about a third lighter. Since the next step turned out to involve going fifty feet across the room while hanging from the pipe, George was grateful for the help.

"Okay," he said, when his feet finally touched down on the top of the enormous tank, "how did you get down from here? It's another twenty feet or more down."

"Far side. There's a pipe that goes over to the wall and then down in order to head off a side passage. Go along it, then slide down, and it will be safe to drop off."

"Ugh!"

Eventually they were both on the floor together.

"Nice to go back to a normal way of moving around."

"So what does the map show?"

"We're both gone. It doesn't do anything weird—we can still see the rest of Hogwarts. But this part isn't on it."

"We're what, a hundred feet lower than we started?"

"Sounds about right. I guess this must be the main water source for Hogwarts."

"Suppose it just generates the water magically here, pressurizes it, and send it out?"

"What, as opposed to a well or rainwater cistern?"

"Yeah. I don't see anything looking like an incoming pipe. Just a huge metal tank."

The room had no other interesting features to speak of. There was a hallway going off from each of the four walls. These were about five feet high, and had large pipes running along their ceilings. "Well," suggested George, "people were shorter then, right?"

"I guess so. So the rest of the castle was just built at a grand scale?"

"Or it adjusts."

"That works too. Damn, this just ends in a shaft up."

The next two were the same.

"This is getting worrisome. I do _not_ want to climb up a hundred feet of shaft and not find a way out."

"Are these roots?"

In the fourth passageway, there were fibers of something coming between the stones of the ceiling and walls. Fred broke some off. "Smells like it."

"Huh." Halfway down the hall, above the pipe, a space just wide enough for a person extended from the ceiling for about two feet, where it simply ended. The pipe continued on at head height, bolted to the ceiling in places, and eventually turned up another vertical shaft that rose into darkness. The twins groaned.

"Well, we're not exactly _trapped_ , per se."

"Oh no, we know exactly how to go back the way we came."

"I just really . . ."

". . . really . . ."

". . . don't want to."

"Could you try doing a hover charm on me?"

"Suuure . . ." Fred watched as George, weighing about forty pounds lighter, pulled himself up on the pipe, maneuvered on top of it, and inspected the two foot shaft.

"You know, the ceiling stone is colder than the walls."

"You're not thinking of trying to break through it, are you?"

"Not exactly—let me see something." George turned so his shoulders were against the ceiling, so that he could press upwards. The stone gave way easily—it was only about an inch thick. Cold air rushed down on them.

"What's up there?"

"I think it's the outdoors, actually. It's a little courtyard!"

Soon they were, in fact, standing in a small courtyard. Thick-stemmed, ancient vines grew up the walls, which towered high above them. Some moonlight filtered through the clouds, but from down here, the patch of visible sky was not very large. Grass and weeds grew from between cracked paving stones. There were no other features, like the statues and fountains of other courtyards. The effect was like standing in a forest clearing.

"Um, Fred, I'm not finding any doors or windows or anything behind this ivy."

"Me neither."

"What does the map say?"

"We're still not on it."

"Huh. Where the hell are we?"

"Lost!"

"Excellent! That was the goal tonight, right?"

"Absolutely. Although I kind of just want to get back somewhere familiar at this point."

"Me too."

"So, back the way we came, or try to climb the ivy?"

They looked down the hole they came out of, then up at the sky.

"Getting here was a real pain. I don't want to just turn around. I vote for 'up'."

"Great! Let's get to it, then."

Together they replaced the stone over the hole. It would not be easy to get it back up again, let alone find it in the dark.

The ivy was far easier and more fun to climb than the pipes had been—they were outdoors, it smelled good, and there were lots of natural handholds. The main trunks of the vines started at the ground, four or five to a wall, each at least a foot thick. Down here there weren't too many leaves, given the struggle for light, but further upwards it bushed out several feet, until the twins were climbing through darkness.

"Hey! I found a window!"

"Does it open?"

"No. I think I can say with confidence it is not designed to open. Looks like nice stained glass, though."

"Lovely. Can you see inside?"

"Nope."

"Damn."

Variants of this exchange repeated themselves several times.

"You know, I think we are back at the level of the dungeons now, where we started."

"Do you suppose this was supposed to be a giant light well?"

"I have a theory, actually."

"You do?"

"I do!"

"Will you share this theory of yours?"

"I will! . . . Okay, fine. I think we are seeing parts of the castle that can in theory move, but haven't in a long time."

"So the reason it looks like it's not doing anything useful right now. . ."

". . . might be that it is not, in fact, doing anything useful right now. Also I think maybe the ivy is holding it in place."

"Wow. I guess it might be strong enough. I wonder if other parts of the castle are similarly 'stuck'."

"Maybe? I don't remember seeing ivy on the Hogwarts walls anywhere else. Maybe this is why. Oh, here's a bird nest."

"Yeah, I've seen several by now. Must be nice and protected down here. Let's make sure to bring Charlie here some time!"

"Oh, yes! He'd love it. Tell us all about the monsters living in the ivy right now, watching us, . . ."

". . . wondering what the hell we're doing here."

"To be fair, we don't know that either."

"True."

"Is that a gargoyle up there?"

"If you're pointing, it's not doing any good, since I can't see you through these leaves."

"Right. I think we're approaching the roof."

"Would have been nice to run across some actual moving windows by now, wouldn't it."

"Assuredly."

They were, in fact, reaching a point near the top where the vines were much younger and narrower, and less well attached to the wall. This required moving slowly and testing everything before putting weight on it.

"George?"

"Yes?"

"I am beginning to question the wisdom of this plan."

"What, you can't find a good place to grab hold of the gutter, either?"

"Not really, no. I might be able to work my way sideways over to where that gargoyle is, and hope it's not one of the animated ones."

"Be careful with that. Charlie said they are pretty foul-tempered."

"Hey Gargoyle! Can I climb on you? . . . Well, no reaction. Here goes."

There was some rustling as Fred evidently managed to get up onto the roof.

"Okay, there's a gutter running along the inside of the roof, the whole way around the light well, or whatever this place is. And the roof slopes inwards all the way around, except there's a tower in the corner, to your left. There's a gargoyle on either end of this wall—if you can work your way left or right, you can pull yourself up on one of them, I think. At least, right worked for me."

"Just give me a moment. You know, next time we go exploring like this, I want to be better equipped. This is exciting and all, but we've climbed what—a hundred feet down and then two hundred up tonight? I'm sure if I were able to see down through these leaves, I'd be paralyzed by fear."

"Yeah. I'm trying to creep along the gutter towards the tower. Here, let's see if this helps— _Lumos!_ "

"A little. Thanks. Okayyyy . . . there. I think I'm over one ivy plant to the left now. Not that I can really tell."

"You're most of the way there. Once I see you, I can help you up with a hover charm, but I need a line of sight first."

"Right. Uh, I see the gargoyle! Looks like the vine goes right around it."

There was an abrupt rustling noise from the corner.

"Aw, bugger it. This one's animated."

"Can you get around it?"

"Actually, it looks like the vine's really got it tied up. It's kind of squirming around. Yeah, you, I see you! You know, it's got a long snout, and I don't think it can open it. Looks pretty miserable actually."

"Well, don't take pity on it until we're safe."

"Yeah, yeah." More sharp rustles from the corner, as the gargoyle tried to shake free.

"Know what? The longer I wait, the better the chance this guy has of escaping. Cast the charm as soon as you see me."

"Okayyyy."

As soon as George's hand appeared on the gargoyle's struggling foot, Fred cast the charm. He wasn't sure if it mattered that it was on an extremity and not George's torso or something, but it seemed to help, as his twin rapidly scrambled up the vine and over the gargoyle. Once George was gripping the vines on the tower's walls, he stopped, foot still in the corner of the roof near the gargoyle. He was kicking. "It's got my shoe!"

"Damn. I could try to hex the gargoyle, but not while maintaining the hover charm. How steady are you there?"

"Not enough." He slipped an inch. "Stick to the hover charm. Uh, there we go." George managed to kick his shoe off, leaving it behind, and pulled himself all the way up to the tower. "Darn it. Mum will kill me for losing that."

"Priorities, George!"

"Right."

"Also, if you have a free hand, try an accio."

At that, the gargoyle tossed the shoe far into the courtyard, where it disappeared faster than either twin could react.

"Damn. Okay, maybe we can retrieve that later. Let's see about this tower. Thank Merlin, I think we can fit through these arches."

Fred watched as George threw one leg into an arched opening of the tower, and then fell inside. "I guess that works." He inched past the gargoyle, which now had both arms free and was waving them around, and at long last joined his brother in the tower. It was a landing in a spiral staircase, with windows on all four sides. The view was gorgeous, but for now the two boys were just sitting down, backs against the wall.

"If we turn out to be stuck up here, I am _not_ climbing back down. I am going to scream my fool head off until somebody comes up and finds us."

"I think, under the circumstances, I concur."

A few minutes later, they had caught their breath.

"So, are we on the map yet?"

"Dunno." George checked. "I don't think so. If there were some sort of 'You Are Here' marker this would be a lot easier . . . No. We're still not on it."

"I guess I didn't really expect to be." Fred stood up, and stretched. "Since we're here, let's see what's up, before we head down."

"Sounds good."

The spiral staircase, after going once around the tower, ended in a trap door. The next room had about a dozen ropes coming from holes in the ceiling, and a rickety wooden ladder was attached to the wall, leading up through a hole in the ceiling.

"Bell tower?"

"Looks like it. Also looks like no one has touched it in centuries."

"I'd be scared to pull these ropes, in case something up there broke."

"Yeah. Maybe we can come back here some day and fix it up. An apparatus for making a gigantic amount of noise . . ."

". . . should not be allowed to go to waste!"

"Agreed."

"We'd need to bring other people here, you know. This is what—fourteen ropes? And that hole over there is empty—it might have a bell but be broken."

"We'll find someone good at repair spells."

"I think Percy's actually pretty good at that sort of thing."

"Huh."

They weren't sure where to go with that line of thinking, and dropped it.

Downwards, the staircase wound around three or four times before ending in a room with a door.

"Map?"

This took a moment, since they had no idea what floor they might be on. "Look!" He handed Fred the map, pointing. They were on the seventh floor, on the far side of the castle from Gryffindor Tower. And they were in the wall. But they were on the map.

"This door has an ordinary doorknob."

"Does it turn?"

"It does."

"And does it open?"

"It does!"

"Now where are we?"

"In a broom closet. Aannd . . . no one is around. So we're clear. We probably look pretty beat up, though."

"I know I'm bleeding from several places."

"And I have one shoe."

"Right. Sorry about that, by the way—if I had been faster . . ."

". . . don't worry about it."

When they shut the door to the tower behind them on their way out of the closet, it simply disappeared. No amount of poking, kicking, or wand-tapping made any difference.

"So, if we want to go back . . ."

" . . . we plan ahead very carefully."

"Right."


	31. Floo Calls and Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius Malfoy talks to Amycus and Fudge, and Tonks sends more notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 31: Floo Calls and Notes

 

Sunday morning, November 18, 1990

 

The fireplace in Lucius Malfoy's office chimed and turned green; someone was try to call him. He answered. The head of Amycus Carrow appeared in the flames.

"Lucius!"

"What is it?" Lucius smirked. "You look pleased with yourself." He raised an eyebrow.

"If now is a good time, I can give you an update on my search for Potter's relatives."

Lucius hadn't been completely serious in "volunteering" Amycus to go after them, and even then wasn't sure the man would have had the patience to break Dumbledore's protective enchantments. He must have succeeded at _something_ to look so damn happy.

"I tracked them down and slipped their address to a friend at the Prophet. Skeeter got ahold of them Friday, and got a good long interview with them. Seems they hate wizards, but liked Skeeter! Go figure. Anyway, Dumbledore never showed, wards didn't trigger, nothing. She even took their kid to her office for a while. Seems they were all only too happy to talk—of course, I think the Prophet paid them, too."

"No doubt some pittance."

"I expect so. From what I hear, it seems like they just wanted someone to listen to them for a few hours while they went off about how much they hated the boy."

"Is that so."

"Quite detailed. My friend says the early reports about the abuse were tame in comparison. Sounds like Dumbledore managed to cover up what nasty little buggers they really are."

"So they actually bragged about beating him?"

"That and a lot of other stuff. Kept going on about how 'the freak needed firm discipline.'"

"Intriguing. I wonder if the muggle authorities ever investigated, or if maybe Dumbledore prevented that, too."

"The Prophet's still looking into it. I think they're also trying to get stories from the neighbors, too. Turns out there was a squib living next door the whole time!"

"What? And they never noticed?"

"Hopefully they'll talk to the Prophet and we'll find out."

"Mm." He nodded. "Have the editors set a deadline yet?"

"My friend says no, but they'd like to do the middle of this next week. Tuesday at the earliest. They don't want leaks to get out, and too many people have worked on this already."

Lucius nodded. He'd make sure to call Fudge before anyone else did. "Very well, Amycus. Is there anything else you think I should know?"

"They're at number 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, if that's of any use to you." Lucius politely wrote that down. "Other than that, no. It ought to be quite a spectacle when the article comes out. Have fun!" On that note, Amycus cut the call. It really was a good job all around, thought Lucius. Yes, he'd make sure to give Amycus credit for it in private.

In the meantime, he had better get to Fudge. He placed the floo call.

After a few minutes, the Minister's head appeared in the fire. "Ah, good, Cornelius. Are you in private?"

"Um, yes. It's just me here at home. Is something wrong?"

"No, I wouldn't say that, I just have some news for you." Lucius was betting he had gotten there first. He was usually right; Fudge was lousy at using his intelligence services. "The Prophet is working on an article about Harry Potter's life with his muggle relatives. My sources tell me it will come out this week, and that it will be rather . . . detailed. And unpleasant."

Fudge looked worried for a minute. "Is there anything you think I should be doing now, then? That's why you called, right?"

"As always, you must ultimately decide your own course of action—" Fudge waved his hands in a familiar 'I've heard it all before, just tell me what to do' gesture. "But your options will depend on the contents of the article and the reactions of the public. Of course, there is still time to influence both of those."

"Lucius, please, just out with it. What do you think I should do?"

"Very well." Lucius sighed at the Minister's look of relief. Some days, he would honestly have preferred it if Fudge required just a little bit of manipulating. "The article will almost certainly describe what would be considered child abuse under either wizard or muggle law. It will give considerably more detail than we heard at the custody hearing, and knowing the Prophet, it will play it up for all it's worth, pulling on the heartstrings of readers.

Now, as far as I can tell, public perception of Harry Potter himself is . . . more or less uniformly positive. It ranges from pity to idol-worship, much of that built up by the Prophet itself over the years. So some of the idol-worshippers might move over into 'pity', if they see the boy as somehow broken . . . that's hard to predict. But it will almost certainly make the public more fanatical about him." Fudge was nodding along.

Lucius continued. "With all that emotion, they are going to want somebody somewhere to do something, and it would be best if the Ministry were to . . . work with that impulse rather than against it." Fudge was looking impatient. "As I said, you have several options to choose from, Cornelius, and the important thing is to actually choose rather than do nothing."

"Yes, yes, but what are those options you keep talking about?"

"Of course. The first question is what to do about the muggles themselves. Do you want to prosecute them? If so, through the Ministry, or by turning over information to the muggle authorities? What will you do with them in the meantime? Let's be clear—the paper is going to publish their address, and Dumbledore can't be there to protect them forever."

"What? Dumbledore is protecting them?"

"This is what I have been told, but yes, I think he has tried to. Perhaps he does not want the story to get out? Perhaps he correctly perceives that an enraged public would be a danger to these muggles?"

"Oh."

"Which leads to the next decision you must make, which is, let us say, what to do about any visitors the family might get. Or potential vigilantes. Bear in mind, too, that the Statute of Secrecy does not apply to them, so there is nothing illegal about wizards visiting them. Of course, it's up to you, but I _do_ recommend making sure they live at least long enough for you to read the article. It's never in your interest to have someone taking choices out of the hands of the Ministry like that."

"Of course, you're right. I shall have aurors posted at their house at once."

Lucius smiled. "So you aren't going to take them into custody, then?"

"No, no, I don't think so. It would look odd if we did it now, since we haven't done it before, and the article isn't out yet."

"Very wise." Compliments went a long way with Fudge. "Now, should you choose not to prosecute, which you might do, given, as you said, that you have not already, this family might never again be free of the threat of Harry's supporters trying to get revenge for their hero. And make no mistake, anyone who succeeded would get more public sympathy than _you_ possibly could, acting through the DMLE. That is, even taking into account Amelia's newfound flair for the dramatic." Both of them laughed.

"Hm. I wonder . . ."

"What is it?"

"No, it's just a thought. I need to check when the Ministry is actually _required_ to provide a 24-hour guard for muggles."

"Remember, if you don't like the rule, you can always ask the Wizengamot to change it."

"Right. Thank you, Lucius. Is there anything I should do besides deal with the muggles?"

"Yes. But—that will depend on the article. I think you should take a very careful look at the role of Albus Dumbledore in all this. He has not come out looking particularly . . . trustworthy."

"Do you think he is truly at fault?"

"I do not know. Always remember that Dumbledore is a mysterious old wizard who goes out of his way to act like one. It is rare for things to happen under his watch that he did not intend, and his schemes are complex and subtle. Perhaps, like the muggles, he thought Harry's upbringing was for his own good?"

Fudge scowled.

"I know, Cornelius, it is not a pleasant thought. Do remember that my own son will be attending Hogwarts next year. I have more than an academic interest in Albus Dumbledore's ideas about child welfare."

"I will look into it, Lucius, I assure you."

"One more thing." Fudge's full attention snapped back to the conversation. "Sooner or later someone is going to manage to get the boy to talk in public. So far he hasn't done anything at all in his life other than not die. He is riding a wave of good wishes. For now he probably has no particular political beliefs—he's ten. But for all that, people will take him seriously even today, and Dumbledore might have significant influence over him still.

Hm. How to phrase this . . . Harry Potter might not be someone you want to associate yourself with too closely. On the other hand, he could be a potential ally, so you should avoid unnecessarily alienating the boy. For now, I suggest trying to be publicly neutral about the boy himself, regardless of what you do with his relatives."

"Okay. Lucius, thank you so much for all your help, I really mean it. I don't know what I would do without it." Flail around uselessly, Lucius thought. "Now, unless there's anything else, I should go check with Amelia."

 

* * *

 

Fudge was quite miffed to learn that Amelia already knew about the situation and had not told him. On the other hand, he was relieved to hear about the auror guard being in place. He wondered if the muggles knew what they were in for. He was almost tempted to go tell them himself, just to satisfy his curiosity. Of course, no sense making them panic unnecessarily, and risk having them violate the Statute themselves.

He remembered to have his clerk look up the Ministry's obligations to them. The answer turned out to be 'none at all', which he tried not to look too pleased about. If he decided not to press charges, well, he didn't think he wanted to waste aurors on these people either. He suspected public opinion would back him on that decision.

 

* * *

 

Albus groaned. Today had not been a good day for the anonymous note-writer to think of more things to tell him. This note had come in the form of a list of questions. Reading them had not left him in a very good mood. This was only partially because he didn't know any of the answers.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dear Headmaster,

Congratulations on the successful apprehension of Peter Pettigrew and the release of Sirius Black. I am gratified to see that my advice was not in vain. Now that I know you will take me seriously, I have a few more puzzles for you, although I fear none will be as satisfying as capturing the rat undoubtedly was.

 

\- How can Voldemort's spirit be detected when it returns to Hogwarts?  
\- Are you sure you can recognize the signs of possession via a horcrux?  
\- Can the average Hogwarts student recognize the signs of possession?  
\- If you caught Voldemort possessing a student, what would you do?  
\- What about a staff member?  
\- If 'expel the spirit so it can possess someone else' sounds appealing, why?  
\- Are you any further along at learning how to destroy a Horcrux?  
\- Have you considered asking the curse breakers at Gringott's to take a look? (They gave me a quote of 20,000 galleons for it, which I do not have.)  
\- Is there any legal procedure for getting at the Lestrange's vault without tipping off Voldemort's allies in the ministry?  
\- Where is the damn snake?  
\- Can you use wards to block Voldemort in spirit form?  
\- What about a house elf?  
\- Is any component of a ward you care about dependent on something external, like the Ministry not falling to Voldemort?  
\- If so, do you really need to use such a ward?  
\- What would it take to actually strengthen the Hogwarts wards against Death Eater attacks?  
\- How closely have you studied the Dark Mark?  
\- Can you make wards trigger based on it?  
\- Can you gain control of it yourself?  
\- If so, could you use it to summon Voldemort's followers at a time and place of your choosing?  
\- What are the best ways to keep Salazar Slytherin's 1000-year-old basilisk out of the main castle?  
\- How many unicorns could someone desanguinate before Hagrid would notice?  
\- How many students can cast a patronus charm?  
\- How many of them know when to suspect polyjuice?  
\- The imperius curse?  
\- Memory charms?  
\- How many think their Headmaster would take them seriously if they tried to report these sorts of things?  
\- Would those be the same students likely to face the hazards you would want reported?  
\- How easy would it be to trick you into leaving Hogwarts for a manufactured emergency?  
\- What would happen if you lost your job as Headmaster?

 

I assure you, if I knew the answers, I would not have asked the questions. I'm sorry I can't be of more help, other than to suggest that research into any one of these things would be an excellent use of your time, and to remind you that it is sometimes necessary to delegate. You should assume I will pose some of these questions to a few of your friends, just in case you decide to play Gryffindor and try to do things alone.

Please stay safe.

 

best wishes,

Anonymous

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Yes, not knowing the answers was worrisome. And yes, the tone of the questions annoyed him—it reminded him of himself, except with a little more sarcasm. Primarily he was in a dark mood because someone had thought all of those questions—any one of which was worrisome by itself—ought to be asked in the first place. That . . . did not bode well.

He had told himself he would take warnings like this seriously, and not waste time before acting on the advice. And, if he were to act promptly on this information, as he had promised himself he would do should any more notes arrive, he would simply have to involve other people. He began a triage process, trying to identify which questions involved secrets he wanted to keep to himself, and which could be delegated easily.

He would start in on them later. For now, he still wanted to warn a variety of people about the upcoming _Prophet_ article, which he had put off in the vain hope of coming up with some brilliant way to head the situation off entirely. Brilliance, at least of that sort, had failed to happen, and he was not looking forward to what promised to be a few weeks to months of improvising.

 

* * *

 

The Lovegood's kitchen was messy by the standards of most normal people.

Luna was currently "tidying up" while her father was at the office. She had very definite ideas about where things ought to be, and since her mother died she had been very particular about them; the sort of order which this produced was generally indistinguishable from chaos to an outsider. Right now she was alternately washing dishes and looking out the window above the sink, which was perfectly placed for being distracting.

An approaching bird resolved itself into the shape of an owl bearing a letter; Luna opened the window and stepped aside. In a few moments, a small tawny owl soared through and skidded to a halt on the kitchen table. "Hello, owl!" she called out, as she moved swiftly to shut the window behind it. "What have you brought me?"

She untied the letter and set it aside, patted the bird on the head, and pulled a blueberry muffin from a basket, setting it in front of the owl. "Owls love muffins," she asserted. The owl ignored the offering and flew to the window, where it began to hop up and down.

"You were told not to wait for a reply," she said, opening the letter. "That's why I shut the window." Then, a moment later, "do try the muffin—I just made them a few hours ago!"

In a few minutes she had taken out pen and paper, and was scribbling out a fairly long response. The owl, realizing that no amount of bouncing and hooting would get it out, but that the girl was obviously writing a reply for it, had given in and decided to try the muffin. It decided that corn muffin was not, in fact, owl food, but that the blueberries themselves were okay, and set itself to the task of pulling apart the muffin to get at them. By the time it was sure it had gotten every last blueberry, the table was a sea of crumbs, and the girl had a letter ready to tie to its leg. "Here. Take this back to whoever sent you, okay?" It bobbed its head, and she attached the letter, at long last letting the owl out the front door. "Alright, off you go! Bye owl! I'm glad you liked the muffin!"

 

* * *

 

Tonks was in Harry's mail room, sorting everything into piles in anticipation of packing it into whatever Sirius managed to bring her next weekend. She was standing along the side wall, far from the window, when an owl landed on the shelf in front of her and presented its leg, showing the attached letter. "Not bothering with the forwarding charm anymore? I guess I have you trained pretty well, then. Thank you."

As it turned out, the letter was not for Harry, but was instead addressed to 'Secret Anonymous Note Writer, Probably at Hogwarts because the Owl Has a Band from There'. That was almost certainly Luna, she thought, grinning. "I'll have to be more careful in the future."

Unless they knew they needed to send a letter soon and did not have an owl of their own handy, wizards did not normally force owls to stick around when they didn't want to. The Lovegoods no doubt had their own owl, too. Tonks wasn't going to bother to speculate about what Luna had been thinking when she made the owl stay. That sort of thing had never been very productive the few times she had interacted with the girl the first time around. "I wonder if she normally opens her father's mail. Let's see what she's got for me . . ."

 

\---------------------------

 

Dear Anonymous Note Writer,

Thank you very much for your nice letter just now. I opened it and answered it because my father wasn't home and it felt important. Your owl looked like it wanted to leave without a reply, so I gave it a blueberry muffin. I will tell father not to write anything about the Ministry having an army of disembodied house elf spirits, although I'm sure the Quibbler would print that for you if you ever wanted it to.

Don't worry about the wards, because I know he will let Headmaster Dumbledore play with them again. Did you tell the Headmaster to put them here? Father said it was in case Harry came over to visit, but he only comes over sometimes when Neville comes to see me, but that's not any fun because Harry isn't allowed to leave the yard. Harry doesn't like how he's not allowed to go anywhere, and don't tell Headmaster Dumbledore, but sometimes we all go play in the woods anyway. Did you also put wards on the Quibbler office?

Ginny says you tried to have wards put on the Burrow so Harry could come visit her but I think it was really some other reason. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley say they don't want the wards but really they don't like the idea of the wards, so I told them to paint them pink, but they didn't like that, so I suggested blue, and they didn't like that either. I'm sorry! Is Harry actually supposed to marry Ginny?

Is Voldemort dead? Why are you so interested in us? Why did you send the story about Sirius Black to the Prophet and not the Quibbler? The Ministry controls the Prophet. You should send notes to us instead.

I think your owl is done with its muffin, so I'll wrap this up.

Is there anything else you want me to do? Please write back!

Luna Lovegood

 

\-----------------------------------------------------

 

Tonks decided it would cause less chaos in the long run if she fully answered Luna's questions, rather than letting the girl's imagination run off with them.

 

* * *

 

Luna was getting ready for bed when the owl tapped at her window. She let it into her bedroom, and again swiftly shut the window behind it. This was exciting! She had gone over to Neville and Harry's that afternoon and talked about the letter. While they were there, Headmaster Dumbledore himself had floo-called to warn Mrs. Longbottom about an article the _Prophet_ was planning. They were going to print some gigantic story about Harry's muggle relatives.

After yelling at them for listening in, Mrs. Longbottom explained that it might be embarrassing for Harry to have private details discussed in public, even if they weren't his fault. Luna wasn't sure she understood, but Harry was really quiet about it and didn't want to talk (he had never been willing to tell her much about them), so maybe it was true. He did say that he didn't care what happened to the Dursleys so long as he didn't have to see them ever again. Mrs. Longbottom had looked unhappy, then patted him on the head and promised he wouldn't have to.

The three kids had gone out to the greenhouse then and talked about the anonymous note writer. Luna had asked whether that was the same person who had helped Dora rescue Harry, but Harry seemed convinced Dora had done that all on her own. She was really not sure about that, since Dumbledore had probably put some pretty fancy wards up to protect him while he lived there. If Dora could get through those, she was scary, although maybe the wards had only protected him from people who wanted to hurt him. Harry had pointed out that they didn't seem to work very well in that case, which seemed like a good point.

Ultimately they decided the note writer was reacting to something related to Harry's return to the wizarding world. Was there some plot against Harry? Why? She had promised to tell them if the anonymous writer replied to her. She was pretty sure they would. Their letter seemed nice. They seemed even nicer in this next letter, too!

 

\----------------------

 

Dear Luna,

Congratulations on thinking to hang onto the owl. Please don't suggest this to anyone else, though — I don't want them bugging me or figuring out who I am! Also I don't really think owls are supposed to eat muffins.

I was afraid if I didn't answer your questions, you'd invent your own answers and cause problems. Please don't take that the wrong way!

As to the wards, Dumbledore worked that out on his own, although I would have eventually tried to make sure it happened if he had not. I want you to stay safe because I think you are destined to get tangled up in history, and as a friend of Harry's you might be a target for Death Eaters or other Dark wizards. Thank you for trying to make the Weasleys see sense. I hear Dumbledore is having the same problem with Remus Lupin, so if you get a chance to talk to Remus, see what you can do.

I am unaware of any wards being put on the Quibbler offices, although that's a good idea. Remember, though, that if it came to another war with the Death Eaters, the best that wards could provide would be time to escape. The best your father could do would be to keep archives outside of Britain, get a good insurance policy that was still valid in the event of the Ministry collapsing, and if things started looking bad, make the offices and your house unplottable and protected by a Fidelius charm.

As to Voldemort, we don't really know enough to say, and so I think it is best if we were all prepared in case he returned. Please do not go talking about that widely.

I don't think Ginny or Harry is "supposed" to marry anyone in particular, but I think it would work out fine if they did end up together. My suggestion is to not push them one way or the other, but these things are hard!

To be honest, the reason I asked the Prophet to investigate Sirius, and not the Quibbler, was mainly that I forgot the Quibbler existed when I was writing the note. Nevertheless, I probably would have made the same decision either way, because I think the Prophet is more willing to pay for veritaserum. The Quibbler is also more vulnerable to retribution for unpopular stories, so unless your father moves the operation to France or something and publishes from there, I will try not to send him anything too controversial.

What do I want you to do, personally? I am so, so sorry to have to tell you this, but as you develop the magical ability, please learn to duel. Assume some day you will need to fight Death Eaters. Learn Occlumency if you can. Don't assume Hogwarts will teach you anything you need to know ever. Get good at flying. Hopefully you will never need this advice, but in all likelihood you will. I'm sorry.

best wishes,

anonymous

 

\----------------------------------------

 

Luna stayed up late into the night reading her father's books about defensive magic and military history. When a mysterious person gives you a quest, you listen to them.


	32. Another Hogsmeade Weekend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius visits Tonks again, and meets some other students.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 32: Another Hogsmeade Weekend

 

Saturday, November 24, 1990.

 

Tonks jumped up and waved as Sirius walked into the Hog's Head bearing a small suitcase that she hoped contained shrunken trunks. After giving him a warm hug, and placing their orders with Aberforth, they sat down, Sirius once again marveling as Tonks set up her privacy charms.

"So," she began, "it looks like if you want to do anything to the Dursleys now, you'll probably have to get in line." Sirius raised his eyebrows, but gave no signs of recognizing what she meant. "Have you been reading the Prophet?"

"Nope! I lived without it for a long time, and find I don't really miss it. Also I haven't bothered to get a subscription yet."

"You probably should. They somehow managed to find the Dursleys and sent Rita Skeeter out to interview them. Huge story—spread it out across three days. I don't know how Skeeter got them to talk so much. In any event, it was detailed and really awful."

"Wait, you're surprised the Prophet was able to find him?"

"Yeah. Dumbledore's wards were pretty good."

"But _you_ found them."

"And your point?"

Sirius thought better of pushing the issue. "Uh, nothing. So, what—did they just talk about all the times they beat Harry, and how much they hated him or something?"

"Pretty much. Talked to the neighbors, too, and some other people. They were pretty thorough."

"So the Prophet just published all the details of Harry's childhood?"

"Right. Page after page of it. You could see where the muggles were coming from, in a twisted sort of way, but they came off looking like monsters all the same. The Ministry has had to keep a very heavy guard on them at all times, which they're probably trying to do without the muggles noticing."

"Wow. So they think someone might go after them?"

"It's a near certainty. Short of using powerful magic to change their identity, I don't know how they'll ever be safe."

"Can't say I feel bad for them."

"Me neither. It's a real headache for a lot of people right now, though. Fudge, Dumbledore, the aurors . . . and anyone who has any opinion on Harry is all worked up about it. Anyway, on the subject of Harry, do you have something for me?"

"I do!" He put the box he had brought in on the table. What had at first appeared to be a small suitcase, or perhaps a large briefcase, was, on closer inspection, a block of polished, reddish wood with a copper handle.

"What is it?"

"This is an original Gurunath Gavaskar." Tonks had a blank look. "He's a famous artist from India. Sometimes he makes things like furniture—cabinets, trunks, and the like. This one is versatile, pretty, and has a huge storage capacity. Harry should be able keep his letters in it and still bring it to school as a trunk, too."

"So, it changes shape? How does it work?"

"Right. It's like a mirror. You just talk to it."

"That kind of thing can get nerve-wracking. Can it talk back?"

"Gavaskar refuses to make anything that can talk or walk around on its own, so no. Let's get this bit over with." Sirius looked down at the trunk, or whatever it was. "Okay, trunk, this is my cousin Nymphadora Tonks, but just in case you _can_ actually talk, never call her by her first name. Just Dora, or Tonks. Anyway, you still belong to Harry, but I'm handing you over to Dora here so that she can put some of Harry's things in you before we give you to him. Hm. I'm going to assume that worked. We don't really want it transforming in here."

"I look forward to playing with it. Do I even want to know how much you spent on this?"

"No. Definitely not."

"Right. I thought as much. Did the Ministry give you any trouble importing it?"

"Uh uh—Gavaskar is well known enough that nobody's going to worry about it. Even though maybe they ought to. Imagine you were importing an assassin's dagger made by da Vinci, and it was the only one of his daggers not in the Louvre. Except with the dagger you'd register it with some international art people in case it got stolen. This thing ought to be capable of defending itself against theft."

Tonks looked skeptical. "You sound really confident of that."

"Well, go look the artist up if you doubt me. Besides, he had three weeks to customize it for, as he said, 'the boy who lived', and he apparently had some very detailed ideas about what that ought to involve. Not that he gave me a discount, or anything—I paid for the three weeks, too. He's apparently one of Harry's many well-wishers, and anyway he knows his reputation will be on the line if anything happens." Tonks looked skeptical. "Come on, Dora—it's not like it's a dark artifact. Gavaskar's eccentric, but he's not dark. I am entirely confident that every feature of this thing is well-intentioned, and that it all works as designed."

Sirius decided to change the subject. "So, what else should I be buying my godson for Christmas?"

Tonks, deciding she might as well accept the "trunk" as a done deal for now, thought back to her original Timeline. "A broom! You should get him his first broom." Sirius' eyes lit up. "Last I heard, Harry and Neville were using Frank and Alice's old brooms, which I think is a little creepy, personally. Harry's father played quidditch, right?"

"Yeah, James was the Gryffindor seeker."

"So you can regale Harry with quidditch stories, too, then!"

"That is a truly excellent idea. Have you seen him fly? Is he any good?"

"No idea. I know he's been playing one-on-one with the Weasleys' youngest son, Ron, for a few months now. Maybe we can watch a game over Christmas break?" She was pleased to see Sirius looking excited again. "Do they make snitches just for practice? Could you get him one of those?"

Sirius grinned. "They do, and I will. I'll resist the urge to buy out the entire stock of Quality Quidditch Supplies, though. Need to save something for future Christmases and birthdays."

Good, Tonks thought. He's planning ahead. Let's make sure he always has things to look forward to. "We'll need to get him alone in order to explain the letters and how the trunk works, right? Maybe we could schedule an excursion? We could disguise the two of you, and I could change, and maybe we could all go to Diagon Alley? I'm not sure he's been there yet."

"Would Mrs. Longbottom trust me?"

"Not if you don't go see her beforehand, she won't. Go visit!"

"Okay, Okay!"

"Besides, you're looking a lot better. Your last letter said you were going wand shopping—did Ollivander say you were good to go?"

"He did!" Sirius pulled it out. "The core is dragon heartstring, same as my old one. That one was hawthorn. This . . . is dogwood."

"Hah! That's great."

"Gavaskar tried to convince me that Ollivander was crazy to limit himself to only three types of cores, one core per wand, well-understood woods only, and so on. If I ever need a second wand, I'll go abroad. But this one works nicely so far. I like it."

"Yeah. No one ever dislikes an Ollivander wand. Hm. Should we take Harry to Ollivander's when we get him?"

"What, start him in early? My family tried that with me. I wasn't very good at anything, though. You might need to make sure the underage magic sensors won't notice. But sure, lots of pureblood families do that. Let's try! Worst case, Ollivander shoos us away."

 

* * *

 

They had spent the rest of the meal making plans for Harry, gossiping about the school, and generally catching up. Tonks thought Sirius was well enough not prescribe the entire stock of Honeyduke's again, but had dragged him into Zonko's, hoping that it would have a similar effect. It did. They were browsing Zonko's wide selection of fireworks when the door chime rang, announcing the arrival of Fred and George.

Tonks quickly looked around, wondering if she could introduce Sirius to them as 'Padfoot', but unfortunately the store was too full of students she didn't know. She'd do what she could. It helped that they were noisy, even though they were very obviously running down a shopping list of banned items. Nudging Sirius, she whispered "those two who just walked in are Fred and George Weasley. They aspire to someday surpass your achievements as a prankster."

"They do, do they? That's ambitious, there. Nobody knows half the stuff the Marauders did."

She elbowed him again. "Shh! They know that name, but not who it refers to."

"I wonder . . ."

"Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking. Don't make a scene, or they might too. Hero worship and all that."

Sirius was laughing, causing the other students to look at the two of them. "Come on, I'll introduce you. Behave yourself." He gave a hurt look. "Yeah, yeah, puppydog eyes. Save it. Hey, Fred, George, um, I don't think we've been introduced. I'm Tonks. And this here is my cousin, Sirius Black." The twins eyes went wide. She assumed the other people in the store were listening in now too—she'd have to be careful. "Sirius had a distinguished record as a prankster in his day, and wanted to meet his . . . what, rivals?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Sirius protested, "since there's no way they'll ever catch up. I mean, there were four of us, and only two of them, right?"

"Sirius!" Tonks elbowed him, far too late, since the gears in the twins head were obviously already turning.

 

"We, . . ."

". . . of course, . . ."

". . . have no idea what you are talking about."

"None whatsoever."

"We deny everything."

"But if you'd like to join us when we're done here . . ."

". . . for a walk or something . . ."

". . . we'd love to hear about your own pranks."

"Nothing you can still get in trouble for, right?"

 

Sirius looked like he had to think about that. The twins politely waited several seconds.

 

"George, I do believe he doesn't know."

"I believe you're right."

"An excellent sign."

"Yes, I think he passes."

"Sir, if we could just finish our shopping here? We'll be another ten minutes or so."

 

"Of course." Sirius grinned. "We'll pretend not to watch."

 

To this, the twins said nothing, and got back to work. Tonks and Sirius ambled back to the fireworks section, when a girl came around the corner from the other aisle, and sidled up to Tonks.

"You know, we overheard most of that. Aren't you going to introduce us to your cousin?"

"Argh! Merlin, Sandra." Tonks shook her head in frustration.

"Yes, hello there!" said a second voice from behind them. "I'm Rissa. Pleased to meet you." She was already shaking Sirius' hand.

Tonks hoped to minimize the damage. "Sirius, Rissa and Sandra usually sit behind me at meals."

The girls forged ahead. "What, you never mentioned us to him?"

Okay, fine. Tonks admitted it was funny. "I might have."

"Wait, wait, Dora—"

"He calls you 'Dora'?"

"Are you the girls with that . . . scene? With Harry and Rita?"

"Well, we were the brains behind it."

"Rissa means we cast the glamors and egged everyone else on."

"I'm told it was an impressive sight. You wouldn't happen to have done this more than once, would you?"

Tonks cringed.

"Nah, the girl who was doing it kind of freaked out afterwards and we haven't been able to convince her to try again. Which is a pity now, after that article came out, you know."

"Dora was telling me about it. What, exactly, were you thinking of doing?"

"Harry and Rita!" answered Sandra, without hesitation. "That's still hilarious. To me at least."

Sirius shook his head, grinning. On the one hand, Tonks thought, this was really good for him. On the other, it was embarrassing. 'Riiight!' said a voice in her head. 'This from the girl who has read Harry's mail how many times?' 'Yes, but that was embarrassing too,' countered another voice, 'and this is in public. And you know it will end poorly.' 'Maybe, maybe not, but it's hilarious. You should totally make it worse.'

"Yeah," continued Rissa, "we're sort of limited by willing actors. Like the kid, Oren, who was Harry, and Angie—we can only do so much with glamors, and I don't think Oren would go in for Snape and Dumbledore anyway." Sirius nearly fell over laughing.

"Dora sent us on a wild goose chase for this potion, polyjuice, which is supposed to be way better than glamors."

This was where Tonks did not want the conversation to go. "But the recipe's in the Restricted Section, right? So the world is safe for now." Wrong phrasing, damn it. She should just keep her mouth shut.

"Oh, polyjuice." Sirius looked thoughtful. "That one's a bugger to brew. We had to steal the bicorn horn from Slughorn's office."

"Sirius, please don't encourage them to break into Snape's office." Even though the past timeline's Snape had killed Dumbledore, something was weird about that, and she had always felt he was on the fence. And this timeline's Snape hadn't done anything wrong so far. She didn't want to push him over the edge.

"Why on earth not? Girls, I think it's only fair to tell you that your Head of House and I are . . . not friendly to each other. Perhaps you should ask him about me."

Tonks had some idea of how things had been back then, and thought everyone involved had been pretty awful to each other. "Sirius, that's mean!"

"What are you doing, sticking up for Snape?"

"I'm not! He's mean to me in class too. I just don't . . . we'll talk about this later."

"Fine. Anyway, as I was saying, polyjuice is a real pig, but all the ingredients are probably _somewhere_ in the castle, and if you're motivated enough you ought to be able to brew it yourself." Tonks was gritting her teeth.

"Hey." Rissa reached out and patted Tonks on the shoulder. "You don't need to stick up for Snape. I know you're a Hufflepuff, and want everyone to have a chance, but you aren't personally responsible for the fairness of the world."

"Yeah," added Sandra, with a smirk, "we can look after our own if, you know, Fred and George or somebody gets out of line. Now, about that polyjuice recipe . . ." She batted her eyelashes at Sirius, clasped her hands together, and tried unsuccessfully to smile sweetly.

"No! Argh." Tonks couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't be taken as encouragement, and everyone looked frustrated with her.

"Just because you don't use your abilities for anything fun," Rissa explained, "doesn't mean the rest of us don't have ideas. You know," she said, looking at Sirius, "you should encourage her to make the most of her time at Hogwarts. She could be going around pretending to be anybody's girlfriend she wanted!"

"Or boyfriend!" added Sandra.

"Rrr." Tonks took out her wand, which made the girls start backing away and Sirius tense up. Instead of hexing them, she just glared intently at them, and started transfiguring her clothing. After a few moments, the girls' eyes widened as they realized what was happening. Tonks screwed up her face, and in seconds she was a flawless doppelganger of Sandra, Slytherin robes and all. Only Harry's weird trunk in her hand looked out of place. "You mean like this?" she said, mimicking Sandra's voice as well. "Sirius, I don't think I want to hear any more of this conversation. I love you, but I'm going to go back to the castle now. Make sure you talk to the twins—they'd be disappointed if you didn't. Oh yeah, Sandra, I'll be you when I check in with McGonagall on my way back. You're all on your own!" Tonks was quietly swearing to herself on her way out the door.

 

* * *

 

Tonks kept her promise, checking in as Sandra before switching back to herself in an unoccupied bathroom. Her self-image was one of a girl who was always getting into trouble, but this year she had managed to avoid getting caught for anything, so she wasn't getting the kind of positive reinforcement she used to. She just wasn't interested in pretending to be someone else so she could hook up with their boyfriend in a broom closet. "No, no, I'm just secretly looking at naked, underage pictures of them, while covertly manipulating all of wizarding Britain via anonymous notes." Somehow that felt inadequate.

Back in her dorm, she stuffed Harry's box, or whatever it was, in her own trunk, and flopped down on her bed. She had been looking forward to going straight to Harry's mail room, seeing what form the box would take, and playing around with packing spells. Right now she wasn't thinking clearly.

She told herself that if she knew, for certain, that the Slytherins were just going to use polyjuice amongst themselves, she wouldn't worry so much about it. And as to Sirius, she just didn't want him to get in trouble. And she really resented being made out to look like she was always well-behaved. The twins could look like they were up to something just by showing up—they had a self-sustaining reputation at this point.

The one bright spot in all this was the prospect of Sirius arming both sides in a prank war—it was hilariously awful, and would give him more things to live for. She didn't like phrasing it that way, but the long term effects of dementor exposure could be quite severe, and from what she had heard from Sirius, no one else was worrying about him.

 

* * *

 

Sandra had not shown up for dinner. Tonks was watching. Halfway through, she got up and tapped on Rissa's shoulder.

"Uh, hey Tonks. No, I don't know where she is, but she checked in with McGonagall, so she must be okay." Rissa was actually capable of smiling sweetly. Tonks sighed.

"Look, _you're_ the one who decided to, um, leave Sandra alone with your cousin. You don't get to look all upset about it if she took advantage of the opportunity. It's not like she actually knows how to take advantage of anything else, you know." She smirked.

Tonks gestured in frustration, searching for words.

Rissa shrugged, saying "I guess she might be a fast learner." Tonks gave up and went back to her bench.

 

* * *

 

It was late at night when Sirius finally side-along apparated Sandra back to Hogsmeade, appearing, to her surprise, within the Shrieking Shack. She looked scared briefly, until she realized Sirius wasn't. He led her along the tunnel into the school grounds, showing her how to temporarily pacify the Whomping Willow. She gave him a big hug, and practically danced back to the castle. After watching her go, he turned and started home, spending a while visiting the shack. It looked more or less the same as he remembered, only dirtier.

 

* * *

 

When Tonks had stomped out on him in Zonko's, he had been faced with all four kids—the girls and the twins—wanting his attention. He had compromised, explaining that he had promised to talk to the boys about his days at Hogwarts, and asked the girls to be in Tomes & Scrolls in an hour.

They walked in silence down the side streets of Hogsmeade, until they were far enough away to talk in private. Sirius cast some privacy and warming charms (it gets cold there in late November!), then had the three of them sit under a tree. The twins looked nervous.

"So," he began, "my cousin has hinted very strongly that the two of you are in possession of a truly remarkable artifact." The twins were still looking at each other, presumably silently debating how much to trust him. "When I said that I had three other friends who helped me pull pranks, you certainly looked like that meant something to you. Hmmmm?"

"How did she know?"

"If you ever figure that out, be sure to tell me. Dora seems to have an uncanny ability to learn things she shouldn't be able to. Just because she's bothered by the idea of some Slytherin girls getting ahold of polyjuice doesn't mean _she's_ innocent." The twins laughed, then became serious again.

 

"Well, let's find out, shall we?"

"Go ahead!"

 

One of the twins pulled the familiar folded paper from within his robes.

 

"Was this what you had in mind?"

 

Sirius just smiled and pulled out his wand.

"I solemly swear I am up to no good. Merlin. I can't believe we did this. It's really a masterpiece, but then you know that. Took us most of my fourth year to get it right." He stared in amazement at the various students walking around on it. "We 'arranged' to have it confiscated by Filch at the end of our time there. The idea was that someone like you would come along and nick it from him. That was my idea, you know—I'm pleased to see it was a sound plan. Mischief managed!" He handed the map back to them.

 

"So, er, if you don't mind us asking . . ."

". . . which one are you?"

 

Sirius made a small mock bow. "Mr. Padfoot, at your service. Mr. Moony is, so far as I know, alive and well, but not answering my letters. Dora's seen him. Apparently going on telling her stories about me which she won't repeat. Wholly unfair. Mr. Prongs was James Potter, Harry's dad. And I'm afraid you are intimately familiar with Mr. Wormtail, having lived with him for some number of years. Yes, Peter."

 

After a suitably horrified silence, they asked about the origins of the names.

 

"I'll tell you if you're good. Or, rather, convince me that you are up to none of it. Good, that is."

 

"Mr. Padfoot, sir, you have no idea how much you have done for us already."

"We would take off our hats to you, were we wearing any."

 

They still looked nervous. It was extremely flattering. "So tell me, what are you two up to? Anything I can assist you with?"

 

"Do you know anything about restoring belfries?"

 

Of the many possible responses to his question which Sirius had imagined, this was not one of them. "Belfries?"

 

"Yes, Mr. Padfoot, belfries."

"We have made it a point, you see, . . ."

". . . to search out things which you did not include in your map."

"And one of those things is an old belfry."

"Did you ever pry off the grating on the back wall of the boys bathroom on the opposite side of the main dungeon level from the Potions classroom?"

 

"No, I can't say that we did. What did you find?"

 

"Well, from there you can follow the water pipes along a crawl space for a few hundred feet. That leads to a vertical shaft. If you chimney down that, you come out in the ceiling of a room with some big water tanks. Once you find a way to get down safely, there are passages going off in all directions, but they all lead to more vertical shafts, except one of them has roots growing in the walls."

"And there's a place in the middle of that hallway where you can climb up on the pipe and push up on a big piece of flat stone."

"You come out in a little courtyard that looks like no one has been in it for centuries."

"It's like a giant light well—the walls go straight up for hundreds of feet—except there are these ivy plants that have taken over every surface."

"Very old. Foot thick trunks."

"All the way up it, there are windows buried in the vines, but they don't open and you can't see in."

"So once you climb up several hundred feet, if you can pull yourself onto the roof without the gargoyles getting you—"

"—I lost a shoe. Little bastard."

"If you can do that, you can climb in the window of this tower, which has a belfry at the top."

"But the ropes look all rotted, and we're scared the wood might be too, . . ."

". . . and having a ten-ton bronze bell fall on our heads sounds unpleasant."

"But, here's the thing, if you go down that tower, it comes out in the back of a broom closet, and then the freakin' door disappears behind you once you turn your back!"

"And we can't find the tower or courtyard from the air. It's a hidden space."

"Which means that if we could get the belfry working . . ."

 

Sirius, who looked _very_ impressed, nodded in understanding. "You could make a lot of noise and no one could stop you?"

 

"Precisely."

"We would be sure to reserve it for special occasions, of course."

 

"So have you explored any of the other passages with the pipes?"

 

"Not yet. We're researching spells for climbing, . . ."

". . . or at least for falling slowly."

 

"Ah, yes, those are useful. I'll look that up for you too, once I get home. Did you know that you still set off the alarms if you enter the girls' dormitories through the windows? Of course, if you're fast and no one's there, you have a couple minutes before a professor shows up."

 

"Actually our brother Charlie taught us that."

 

"How many kids did your parents have, anyway?"

 

The twins made a show of counting on their fingers. "Seven!"

 

Sirius whistled. "Okay, you two, unless you have anything more to talk about that's specific to the map, let's go meet those girls. Do you two know them?"

 

"Nope."

"Not at all, before today."

 

"Hm. I guess they don't get noticed outside of their own little sphere. Pity. They seem imaginative enough."

 

They found the girls in the bookstore. Sirius was curious what they had been looking at, but they jumped up in excitement when they heard the door open. "Hi girls. Let's go for a walk. I know it's cold out, but the sun's shining, and it was just a few months ago I didn't think I'd ever see it again."

"That's fine. Are the boys joining us?"

"If you all want to talk to me, then yes. That is, whether you want to get pranking advice, or are just drawn in by my irresistible charm." The girls giggled. "You know, it was Dumbledore, and these boys' father and brother who brought me home from the courthouse. And they all seemed doubtful of my assertion that the girls would go for the haunted, starved, demented look. Hah!"

 

"We'd be happy to tell Dad that he was wrong . . ."

 

Sandra managed to cut off the other twin, and seamlessly continue ". . . but you look a lot better than you did in your newspaper photo."

 

"Yeah, that."

 

"Thanks, all of you. So, girls, Dora was telling me you were talking about love potions. I had some close calls with those back in the day, as you might imagine. Were you planning on using them for your own purposes, or was it just speculation?"

"Just speculation," explained Rissa, "mostly about Harry Potter. Kid better get really paranoid, and have friends with antidotes, is all I'm saying."

"Dora tells me he's quite the celebrity."

"It's more like he's the only celebrity under fifteen, and there are all these girls who would be looking for something to obsess over anyway."

"So once he gets to school," added Sandra, "they can all be creepy stalkers!"

"Right. So Sandra and I overheard some of the boys talking about using love potions for pranks. They think no one can hear them. Anyway, they were hung up on how to get a target to eat or drink it."

"Hm." Sirius rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, there's plain old trickery—send somebody food they like. You can pretend the food came from someone else, like cookies from a relative whose handwriting you can forge, but you have to be careful with the recipe and all unless it's store-bought. You can use guilt for that too—people respond to guilt really well, for instance if they think someone put a lot of effort into making something for them.

You can find a way to spray it on them, although that risks getting bystanders. It's hard at the Hogwarts tables, but people did it in my day—hover it into their drink or soup while you create a distraction, or put dosed food on their plate. You can use the brute force approach of knocking them out or immobilizing them, then making them swallow it. If they take some potion regularly you can mix it in.

If it's strong, like amortentia, you can deliver it with a thorn or pinprick that breaks the skin. If you formulate it right, you can do it topically in an ointment, either as a trap or disguised as something else. Don't use amortentia for anything you need subtlety for, by the way—everyone can recognize the effects immediately, so you should save it for when Snape gets out of line.

Right, traps. There are a lot of spells for triggering or stopping on a certain event. Like, say, a notice-me-not or disillusionment charm that terminates when the target shows up—that's a nice trick when you can use it, because it's hard to detect a spell that's not there. You can prepare a spell for launching a spray or powder and combine it with your trigger—that's how you'd do a letter bomb, of course—but you still have to worry about bystanders with those.

Now, if you don't care about bystanders, or better yet if you don't have a particular target in mind, your options expand dramatically—I once dosed a bunch of chocolate frogs with a subtle potion keyed to James, to try to make Lily jealous over him, but that backfired and they both wound up hexing me. Most of the frogs got eaten before anyone figured it out, though, and there won't always be someone as clever as Lily to catch you.

Do not try to tamper with Hogwarts food while it's in the kitchens! I know it sounds like a way to get the whole school at once, but the house elves take a lot of pride in their work and will stop you. Besides, you really want to stay on their good side so you can get sandwiches in the middle of the night. Aside from that, though, wide-area delivery systems can be very effective—it's really easy to suspend a cloud of vapor in the air, for instance.

There's no breeze in the Hogwarts corridors, remember, and the air-freshening charms don't remove anything exotic. You can't mess with the temperature easily, but the spells that maintain humidity don't work very quickly on magical conditions—either they're careful not to make sudden changes, or they're easily overpowered, or maybe they just leave something alone if it looks like somebody put it there on purpose. I don't know. In any case we used that technique a lot."

 

All four of his listeners had been paying very close attention. "So," asked one of the twins, "would those work on any old potion?"

 

"Certainly! I should have mentioned that."

"Wow," said Rissa, "I've never heard of most of all that before. Harry's in trouble next year, isn't he?"

Sirius grinned. "I should probably have also mentioned that Harry is my godson."

This produced looks of shock on the girls, who had not known this, and grins on the twins, who had been keeping their mouths shut because it seemed funnier that way.

"Well, that's awkward!"

"Sandra, you have such a way with words."

"Seriously, though, um, Sirius—you probably get that all the time, don't you?"

"It never gets old!"

"Good, I guess. But seriously, I promise to lay off Harry, but we can't, you, know, control everyone in Hogwarts. I mean, chances are he'll be in Gryffindor, right, with these guys?" Everyone seemed to agree. "And if you're his godfather, you know he's going to be picking on Slytherins . . ."

"Nah, don't worry about that. Although, he really is my godson, and if he actually gets hurt you'll learn why the Death Eaters were scared of me back in the war. But I expect you two will stick to harmless pranks like love potions and such." He gave them his best McGonagall impression, looking stern. "I want Harry—and my two disciples here—to have some decent opposition."

 

"I do believe, my dear brother . . ."

". . . that we are being set up."

"Indeed! We will, of course, . . ."

". . . rise to the challenge."

 

Sandra smirked. "I don't know, boys, you might rise to the challenge, but do you have the stamina to see it through?" Sirius laughed, Rissa sighed and shook her head, and the twins looked confused.

"I think that was too subtle, Sandra," offered Sirius. "You'll need to polish up your technique if you want to get a rise out of them."

Rissa nearly fell over laughing. Sandra snorted in almost-genuine indignation. Once Rissa recovered, she explained. "I think you just insulted her—that's probably the first time anyone's told her she wasn't direct enough."

"I'm glad I could provide her with some positive motivation, then!"

"If you say so."

"So, what was the last prank you boys pulled?"

The twins looked at each other, frustrated.

 

"See, that depends on your definition of a prank."

"Which in turn assumes, philosophically speaking of course, . . ."

". . . that there is any true meaning to the word at all."

"If there were, . . ."

". . . surely someone, . . ."

". . . like, say, Mr. Filch, . . ."

". . . would have shared it with us by now."

"Yet they have not."

"Which leads us to believe there is no such thing as a prank, . . ."

". . . or, alternatively, if you will, that all things are pranks, . . ."

". . . and in fact life itself is one big prank in which we can only hope to play a small, . . ."

". . . but perhaps glorious, part."

 

"I think that might be the best effort of dodging a question that I have ever heard. Girls, what was the last thing you remember them getting in trouble for?"

"Filling the hall outside Snape's office with geese."

"That's more like it! Good show. Why geese?"

 

The twins shrugged. "They were easy to get?"

"Except for the biting."

"Also they were against the rules."

"Specifically so."

 

"What, geese?"

 

"Live poultry."

"It's on Filch's list!"

 

Sirius looked troubled. "There's something off about that, but I can't put my finger on it. Good job, anyway. How'd you get caught?"

 

"We didn't. We were just the only ones who knew it was against the rules."

 

"Owwww. That's a new one on me. Seriously twisted, too."

 

"We know!"

"It's unfair!"

"Of course, it only adds to our reputation . . ."

". . . so we aren't complaining too much."

 

"Building up your own reputation has two sides, you know—you have pressure to live up to expectations, or you'll disappoint people."

 

Sandra kicked a pebble. "Don't I know it!" Everyone looked at her. "What?"

 

"It's true, though . . ."

". . . our dear brother Charlie lost a bet with Hagrid over that!"

 

"What, over Sandra?"

 

"No, over whether we would bring squirrels into the school by the end of October."

"Which we did not do."

"He really should have dropped a hint or something."

"We aren't a full time wildlife-smuggling operation, you know."

 

"Squirrels?"

 

"Because they are from America, apparently."

"It makes sense to Charlie."

"We think."

"Speaking of things we don't really know, one of the items on Filch's list is 'French can openers'." The girls giggled.

"You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

 

"Sorry. It never really occurred to us to look at Filch's list while I was a student, and I'm kicking myself about that right now."

 

"Don't!"

"Not everyone can be as brilliant as us!"

 

"Don't push your luck. Girls, what are you snickering about?"

"French can openers."

 

"If you know, please tell us!"

"We've been asking everyone!"

"Come on!"

 

More giggling. "We might, er, . . . if you're nice to us . . . explain it when you're older?"

Sirius made a handbrushing gesture. "I'm staying out of this!" He cast a time spell; a glowing clock face appeared in front of him. "Four-thirty. When do you need to be back by?"

 

"Now!" said one of the twins, as they all looked back towards the castle.

"I don't! Can you sneak me back in later?" Sandra tried for puppydog eyes, which didn't work any better than smiling sweetly. "Pleeeeeease?"

Before Sirius could respond, Rissa grabbed each of the twins by the hand, pulling them with her. "Let's get going and allow her to get into trouble on her own, okay? It was very nice to meet you, Sirius!"

"Yes, it was!"

"We look forward to our next meeting!" They attempted a salute with their free hands, as Rissa sped up.

Sirius and Sandra watched them hurry off. As they turned a corner, Rissa dropped their hands. "Don't think that meant anything, you two. It was just funnier that way. You're still Gryffindors."

 

* * *

 

"Soooo," he had said, and waited to see her reaction.

"Eee."

He looked at her expectantly, just to make her more nervous, and briefly contemplated what, if any, responsibility he had towards this girl. She might have a crush on him, which was flattering, but was also something he decided not to think about for now. Remus would probably have said to wait and see what she asked for, rather than luring her to stay away from school any longer than she would on her own.

On the other hand, he was charmed by her eagerness to cause trouble. And it would certainly be nice to have more allies, or sort-of-allies, within the school once Harry was there, especially in Slytherin.

Okay, no, honestly he just wanted to cause more trouble himself, fancy justifications be damned.

"So, young lady. How can I assist you in your nefarious schemes?"

She had some ideas.

 

* * *

 

When she got back to her room, Angie was already in her bunk, reading.

" _Someone_ looks happy. Rissa says you went off with Sirius Black."

"Eee!" Sandra bounced up and down.

"You know, I really ought to tease you the way you would if it were me."

"But you're not that good, I know! It's okay. I have something to show you . . ." She reached into the large paper bag of stuff she had brought back with her, pulling out a piece of paper and passing it up. " _This_ is the recipe for polyjuice. Sirius doesn't think we can get the ingredients on our own, but he says he could be convinced to send them to us if we are . . . convincing enough."

"What is this 'we' business?"

"I'm hoping you'll play with us again if we make it fun enough for you."

"Fun?"

"Look, I'm not sure how to convince you, but you're really good at acting and you're actually braver than most anyone else I know, once you have something you want."

"Flattery won't . . . well, maybe. Still. I'll think about it. So what else did you do besides plot to have me act out your sexual fantasies for you?"

"Angie! You're learning! I might have said that! I'm so proud." Sandra really did look happy. "He took me back to his place."

"Annnnd. . ."

"Showed me around. I yelled at his crazy house elf for him, and it made us dinner. The Black place is really nice! He made copies of a bunch of stuff from his library, and gave me lots of good ideas for pranks, and taught me some spells."

"Annnnd. . ."

"Sneaked me back onto the grounds just now through a secret tunnel."

Angie raised her eyebrows.

"No, we didn't do anything else. Hmph."

"Rissa was pretty sure you wanted to. Disappointed? Frustrated?"

"I didn't really think anything was going to happen." Sandra changed into her pajamas as Angie contemplated the polyjuice recipe. "You know, it's okay to tease me back. I can actually take it, and it's fun."

"I'm not you. We'd have to steal these from Snape."

"That's what Sirius said, and then warned us about the guy reading our minds. But Oren cornered Snape on that point for us, and I think we're safe."

"Oh?"

"Snape says he doesn't like reading the minds of Slytherins, because he learns things he didn't want to know about."

"Huh. I wonder if that's true."

"I think it is. You're pretty innocent."

"I don't think I could manage to look innocent if I were planning to steal from the potions storeroom. And this thing takes what, a month to brew?"

"Right. So we wouldn't be starting on it until January anyway. And maybe we can pick the ingredients up over break somehow, or maybe Sirius will give in and buy it for us."

"Okay, fine. What kind of 'convincing' does he have in mind?"

"I think he wants us to provide a challenge for the Weasley twins."

"Oh."


	33. Interlude: Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few conversations over breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.
> 
> This story hit the 100k-word mark somewhere around this chapter, depending on your word-counting mechanism. Given that this is my first attempt at fanfic, I'm pretty pleased with myself.

Chapter 33: Interlude: Breakfast

 

Thursday, November 29, 1990

 

"Says here there's a new Prime Minister." Erwin was reading the Prophet over breakfast. "Here's a photo of Fudge posing with him."

Bernard looked over. "Goofy-looking. His glasses are too big—makes him look like Trelawney."

"Heh. A little. He makes Fudge look dignified. Look here—it says the muggles are digging a tunnel to France, and they'll be finished tomorrow. Weird."

"I guess boats and aeroplanes and such weren't good enough."

"Yeah, they really seem to love their cars. Digging a tunnel to France just so they can drive there is just . . ."

"Yeah."

 

* * *

 

Over at the faculty table, Dumbledore was giving Eeles a hard time. "So, when do we hear about your lesson plan for bowling?"

"Are you ordering me to come up with one?"

"No, no, just wondered what you were up to today."

"Squirt guns."

"What, those muggle toys that shoot water?"

"Yes, those."

"What for?"

"Dodging."

"Of course."

"Would I be correct," interrupted Flitwick, "in assuming these aren't ordinary muggle toys anymore?"

"You would! They don't need refilling, and the water turns to fake blood if it hits. Non-staining, of course. You can scourgify it off."

The other professors didn't look entirely comfortable with this, save for Severus, who was quietly laughing.

Flitwick gestured with his fork. "Do you have any particular reason you think they need dodging practice?"

"It's not so much practice—this isn't an auror academy or something. I'm just worried about their tendency to stand still and hammer away at each other's shields. Hopefully making a one-time game out of it will remind them that they can move around when something threatens them."

"You know, Erasmus," said Dumbledore, as Filius nodded in approval, "I suppose I really ought to inquire—you _are_ getting these things approved by the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department, right?"

"The what?"

"I was afraid of that. I guess I know what paperwork I'm doing this afternoon."

 

* * *

 

A great grey owl soared gracefully over the Gryffindor table, its dignified yellow eyes shining in its huge facial disc, gaze fixed on the Weasley twins. It adjusted course with a single flap, turning upwards toward the ceiling as it released its package, dropping it precisely onto George's eggs and sausage.

No one was fazed by this sort of thing; it happened hundreds of times a day. That's what cleaning charms were for.

Fred poked it. "Well, go ahead, what is it? Is it from Sirius?"

"Let's see—I think so. Yes. We'd better not open this at the table."

 

"What," asked Oliver, "is he sending you yet more ways to get in trouble? Why do you even bother to hide it?"

 

"Maybe, and because grease won't come out of paper with just a scourgify."

 

Charlie laughed. "I should tell mum you said that! She'll be thrilled."

 

"Please don't!"

"I know it means she gives us fewer chores, . . ."

". . . but we make up for it with our charming presence!"

"And explosions!"

 

"Oh, it's okay. Just promise to look after Ron and Ginny, and help win a few Quidditch matches before I graduate, and we're good."

 

"Deal!"

 

* * *

 

"Ooh. Cho, listen to this. 'Muggle Malcolm Nelson, interviewed by this reporter in last week's expose of Harry Potter's childhood, has gone missing. In response, the Ministry has tripled the number of aurors assigned to the Little Whinging area, and urges the public to remain calm. An auror speaking on the condition of anonymity had this to say: "They're going to have to protect each and every one of those kids from the article—no doubt about it, some nutter will come after them sooner or later. Fudge and Bones have no idea what to do, and nobody else does either. It's a real pain in the ————, I tell ya." This reporter can only agree, and hope for the well-being of all of those civic-minded individuals who have been willing to share their stories with the press.'" Several Ravenclaw girls were peering over Marietta Edgecombe's shoulder at her copy of the paper.

"Well, that's one less of them. Good job, whoever got him."

"Maybe he ran away," suggested Cho.

"All the better. Easier to catch him, and no aurors around."

"Can't the aurors track him down? Wouldn't you need magic to hide him?"

Marietta pointed to the article. "Well, you can't expect the Ministry to go too much out of its way. My mum works for the Ministry, and says nobody there has any sympathy for the muggles. Fudge and everybody just want to make a show of doing something."

"Well, why can't they prosecute the little bastards? Toss 'em all in Azkaban."

"They're just kids." Cho looked torn. "I mean, a year younger than us, but when all this happened they were younger. Maybe the Ministry wants to let the muggles deal with it."

"Um," said Marietta, "mum says that's not really happening. The muggles don't seem to care. 'Boys will be boys' and all that. So it's Fudge and Bones do something, or . . ."

"Or somebody does it for them?"

"Yeah."

Several seats down, Rachel Comrie poked at her eggs in silence. She wasn't hungry. The paper had never managed to get an interview with Harry, and honestly in his position she wouldn't have talked to them either. It made her feel a little better about that embarrassing letter she had sent him several years back—if Harry wasn't talking to anyone, at least he wasn't talking to them about _her_.

She still had hope that maybe he had gotten it, and didn't know what to write back, but was secretly holding on to it, and they'd meet next year in the hall. And by then, maybe, she'd have figured out what to say to him. Would he even recognize her? Her hair was about the same. She laughed to herself, thinking maybe he'd have trouble if her clothes were on. That would be a nice problem to have. She could live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About this chapter:
> 
> IRL, John Major (who really did wear goofy glasses, IMO) became Prime Minister on the 28th, and the Chunnel workers met in the middle on the 1st.
> 
> Also, Cho and Marietta started in 1990 in canon. I knew this, but haven't had any use for them yet.
> 
>  
> 
> In general:
> 
> Having hit 100k words, I think I've earned the right to some lengthy author's notes!
> 
> The original conceit of this story was just "write a very complicated time-travel fanfic", although there are a few very specific features of it that won't turn up for a while yet (it is my hope that by the time I get to them, they won't seem weirder than the rest of the story).
> 
> To the extent this story has themes, I think they are mostly variations on pushing the boundaries of the canon universe -- socially peripheral characters, both canon and original, aspects of the world that were never really fleshed out, and so on. It is also my hope to write characters with complex motivations, which takes a while to show. I think the Kettleburn chapter is a microcosm of what I'm often trying to do -- have a whole bunch of individually reasonable actions end up with unreasonable results.
> 
> On the topic of rules I have set for myself, there are a few I want to either clarify or at least remind people of:
> 
> \- I'm trying very hard not to engage in what other fanfic authors would call "bashing". Characters may insult each other, and they may believe horrible and wrong things with great confidence, but I, as the author, don't have it in for anybody (I might need them later!).
> 
> \- While there are a few obvious "factions", mostly people are opportunistic and out for themselves. They will have their own set of ethics, sure, but ethics are not the same as blind loyalty. Loyalty should be interesting and not the default.
> 
> \- Similarly, self-centeredness may result in very bad consequences, and you don't have to be evil to be self-centered. Outside of the Weasley family, I can count the number of characters I intend as unqualified "good guys" on one hand. Hopefully, characters can be both evil and sympathetic.
> 
> \- I am largely going by the Harry Potter Wiki (http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/) as a reference for what canon actually is. That site draws on every official source it can find, and then makes some inferences of its own as well. J. K. Rowling was not very good at making sure all her dates and claims about when things happened all lined up sanely. As a result, fanfic authors disagree on things like when Charlie and Tonks were at Hogwarts or when Quirrel took his sabbatical. You may safely assume I'm deliberately fudging or trying to make the story work.
> 
> \- I am rarely sitting around thinking "is this AU or not?" I'm just writing stuff. Only Trelawney and her doings are consciously AU -- anything accidentally non-canon is retroactively on purpose. :)
> 
>  
> 
> So a second milestone is that I've almost made it to Christmas break, which is usually a nice interlude in the canon books. I had no clear idea starting out of how long it would take to get to this point, especially since very few fanfics begin at the time I selected. So, aside from being much funnier than I expected, the story is going more or less as planned.
> 
> I don't know what the pace of the story itself will be like going forward -- it might remain slow. As to updating, that might happen more in bursts and less regularly for the foreseable future, since I want to try writing things out of order again in order to have more time working on important chapters.
> 
> To the extent this story has parts, Christmas will be the end of Part I (I will probably not bother labeling it as such, though). I have some darker material coming up eventually which will need stronger warnings than I've used so far, so the story might feel a little different going forward. Some of it might take longer to write. I hope the (deliberate!) slowness of the first part of this story doesn't mislead people into thinking there will be no sex or violence ever.
> 
>  
> 
> Finally, a very, very exciting thing is that mirabilos wrote fanfic based on my fanfic, which is linked to below somewhere (there's a nice feature for that on this site).
> 
> This was coming from someone who says they have never written fanfiction before, and for whom, if I recall correctly, English is a third language. I am simply awed.
> 
> For a little perspective, fanfics with far more words, readers, and reviews do not get this. My gold standard of fanfic popularity -- Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality -- has gotten a lot of fan art, but I think fanfiction based on it has happened exactly once. That one was written for MoR's chapter 53, and Eliezar (author of MoR) has much longer chapters than I do!
> 
> I will take this as a sign that I must be doing something right. :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, rated, or reviewed!


	34. Before the Holidays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.
> 
> Publication date for this chapter was originally 3/2; set to date of finally finishing the import onto Archive of Our Own.

Chapter 34: Before the Holidays

 

Tuesday, December 18, 1990.

 

The Great Hall did not yet have Christmas decorations—only muggles made a whole season out of it. The staff and house elves generally saved their energy and imagination for the actual Christmas Feast—the one held for those who stayed at Hogwarts over the holidays. Nevertheless, it had been snowing in northern Scotland off and on for the past day, and the Headmaster had added to the realism of the enchanted ceiling by making actual snow fall from it; small white flakes glittered in the torchlight, drifting down and disappearing halfway to the floor.

The appearance of the food was waiting on a few words from Dumbledore, who stood up and cleared his throat once most students seemed to have taken their seats.

"If I could have your attention for a moment, I have a few brief announcements before I leave you to your dinner. Tonight we bid goodbye to Professor Burbage, who has been our substitute Muggle Studies professor for this past year and a half while Professor Quirrel was on sabbatical. Professor Quirrel will be returning to teach Muggle Studies in January, but will take over the Defense Against the Dark Arts position starting next fall, replacing Professor Eeles, who unfortunately remains steadfast in his refusal to put up with us for a second year. Seeing as Professor Burbage has taken a two-year job in America, we are currently seeking a Muggle Studies professor for the next academic year and hopefully beyond. Please have any interested candidates apply to me directly.

Now that I have confused you all with our anticipated shuffling of professors, I wish those of you going home to your families tomorrow a pleasant journey, a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year. Let's eat!"

 

* * *

 

Sybill Trelawney stared off into space, occasionally remembering her food. Eating slowly, if you were _really slow_ , could be a problem at Hogwarts, since the food would eventually disappear from in front of you. Tonight's dinner was a little longer, allowing her more freedom to let her mind wander.

She was increasingly anxious about her correspondence with Lucius Malfoy. After a brief note back to him thanking him for his interest and asking what Divination books he had been looking at, he had responded with the titles of several standard textbooks and a few that Hogwarts didn't have copies of. That should have been exciting, but it all meant writing more letters and risking becoming friendly with the man. It wasn't that she didn't have ideas about how to improve the curriculum—she most certainly did, and could easily find ways to spend whatever money the Board of Governors sent her way. She imagined it would be similar for most of the professors here, under similar circumstances.

Her interactions with Pomona had been nothing but positive, and this, too, was nerve-wracking. Sybill had no idea how to go about building a close professional relationship, assuming that was what Hogwarts instructors were supposed to have. She had no one she could really ask about this; Uncle Acamar had grimaced and told her "Hogwarts is special" and that he had no advice to give.

In any case, her collaboration with Sprout had been wholly successful. The mandrakes were a few inches high now—just big enough for the students to need ear protection when transplanting them to larger pots, which would have to happen soon. They had several flats of candidate mushroom species, too, one of which she had tested already.

While Sybill was genuinely unwilling to let her students take risks she would not take herself, her real reason for needing to test everything personally was that no one else knew what they were looking for.

She had tried the mushroom on tea leaves, and was struck at how easily she could see the patterns; there was a reason this had been standard practice at Hogwarts centuries ago. She had then gone for a walk in the forest down by the lake, watching the flight of birds for the shapes which were the raw information for auguries. If she ever needed to do that for real, she decided, she would take the mushroom before flooing to downtown London, and then go scaring up flocks of pigeons.

London. She looked forward to the break so that she could spend more time away from the wizarding world. The interior of Hogwarts—steeped in memories of the middle ages, torchlit, insular—felt more and more dark, oppressive, and often downright primitive, as the years went by. The wizarding world in general was not much better. Hiding in her tower was of only limited use.

Her experience of the muggle world, beyond her occasional drunken escapism in bars and nightclubs, was mostly limited to her own wanderings around London. She was not muggleborn nor did she wish to be, but she longed for someone to just guide her through the muggle world, so that she could use it as a realistic fall-back to retreat to when the wizarding world got too much for her and she needed to escape.

 

* * *

 

Irma Pince actually had a smile on her face at dinner. It was a little unsettling for some of the other staff members, but no one ventured to ask her what she was thinking, and she did not volunteer anything.

The student who had earlier broken into her office had left her a Christmas present. Granted, it, too, had involved a great deal of breaking in, but it was so obviously thoughtful and well-intentioned, and its installation so carefully and unobtrusively executed, that she had to forgive whoever it was. She only hoped they did not take to adding books to the shelves; that could end badly, would lead to copycats, and would be extremely laborious to bring under control.

At 10 AM sharp, this morning, at a time when she was reliably at her desk in the library to assist students with checking out books, a package appeared on an unoccupied area of her desk, no doubt placed ahead of time with some concealment charm timed to end when she would be there to see it. It was round, about an inch high and a foot in diameter. The paper in which it was neatly wrapped had a pattern of holly with berries, on a gold background.

There was a card on top in a green envelope. On the outside, it said "To Madam Pince, Christmas 1990. Open the present first, then read the card!" The present itself was heavy, and turned out to be a stone covered in runes. Unable to work them out for herself, she opened the note.

The anonymous student had made a set of rune-stone-based silencing charms for the library, controlled from the stone on her desk. She could adjust their strength, use them to buffer or isolate the tables from each other or from the stacks, or drop everything completely. Her favorite feature was what the note called "the Damn You All! option", which placed the entire room into absolute silence. She could hear her own pulse, her breathing, and the vibrations from her larynx, but no sound was left traveling through the air itself.

She had it checked over by Bathsheba and Septima, of course. The professors of Ancient Runes and Arithmancy had carefully inspected each of the component stones high on the walls above the shelves, or sometimes in places on the ceiling itself; concealed by default for aesthetic reasons, they could be made visible for maintenance. The two witches had declared everything to be safe, straightforward, elegant, and effective. "Good show! Very nicely done," Bathsheba had said, before rolling her eyes at the note's request to her specifically: 'If Professor Babbling asks, please tell her that she is a very good teacher but that I wish to remain anonymous. Please tell her not to spend _too_ much time trying to figure out which one of her students I am!'

"I have to say, Irma, it's a very thoughtful present. They must have found noisy students as annoying as you do in order to make this! Either that or they know you well. Perhaps a bit of both. At any rate, it's a very nice gift. Merry Christmas!"

 

* * *

 

Nymphadora Tonks was looking forward to Christmas. Mrs. Longbottom and Dumbledore had given permission for them to take Harry on an outing so long as they could find at least two other responsible adults, where "responsible adult" unfortunately also meant "skilled duelist". Tonks was trying to encourage Sirius to talk Remus into joining them; Remus was apparently being difficult. Tonks imagined that meant he was answering Sirius' owls with terse replies to the effect they should find someone else, because he probably felt horribly guilty about Sirius, and probably Harry too, after that article.

So they ought to be able to get Harry alone, or at least away from Mrs. Longbottom, for long enough to explain how the trunk worked. Or at least, what little of it they understood. When Tonks had finally gotten it up to Harry's mail room, having put aside her irritation at Sirius for the moment, she had set the box down on the floor and stared at it, wondering where to start.

"Okay, trunk, or whatever you are. This room, see, or really I don't know if you can see, but anyway this room is full of mail—letters—that were sent to Harry but never delivered to him, because they were intercepted. Sirius and I think it's high time he got this mail, and he needs a place to store it where it will be safe. We're pretty much counting on you to help out with this."

Nothing happened.

"I want to store all these letters inside of you." Merlin, that sounded weird. "So I can give them to Harry."

She was beginning to wonder whether Sirius had been duped into buying a non-magical block of rosewood when it ballooned outward, settling on the form of a cylindrical filing cabinet. It had only one drawer, which had the same copper handle as before; the appearance of the wood did not change either. The drawer then slid out several feet of its own accord—further than the depth of the cabinet itself. 'That's more like it,' Tonks thought. Looking into the back of the drawer, the space receded into darkness which her _lumos_ could not penetrate.

"Okay, I'm going to start with all the junk mail. I used a spell to sort it out. Harry will probably want to read everything else first. Um, here we go . . ."

She remembered Harry's impressed look back in the original timeline, when they had come to fetch him from Privet Drive and she had packed his trunk for him. She wished he could see her now, standing in a swirling cloud of mail, sucking it up from the heaps she had sorted it into and funneling it, tornado-like, into the open drawer.

The mail simply disappeared into the drawer. When she had told it she was done with the junk mail, and was switching to the regular kind plus some packages, it simply retracted the empty drawer and opened it again. She wasn't sure if that was actually a sign it was shifting things around in its pocket dimension or whatever, if that was its way of communicating, or if it just seemed like the stylish thing for a magical filing cabinet to do right then. In any event, the process repeated itself without incident.

"Alright, I think that went well. I have one more set of letters for you." She pulled out the bag of . . . sensitive . . . letters from her robes, and unshrunk them. She had found, by now, about forty letters of that sort, and assumed there were quite a few more left. She had tied these lightly together in three small bundles.

"These letters are important. They are private. Basically they're all from girls who fancy Harry, or I guess, thought they did when they wrote the letters . . . If they fell into the hands of anyone other than Harry, both Harry and the girls who sent them could be very embarrassed, and might get into a lot of trouble.

If you think Harry is being forced to take them out of you, you don't let them out. If you don't trust someone Harry is with, you don't let them out. Once I put these in you, I should only see them if Harry voluntarily shows me, and I don't expect that to happen. If someone other than Harry tries to take them from you, you pull out _all_ of your tricks to stop them. Got that?"

The drawer retracted, and the cabinet shrunk down into a small box, just large enough for the letters, lid open. Tonks gently placed the letters inside, wistful about not seeing them again, but also relieved to be rid of the temptation. The box closed its lid, opened it again to show nothing inside, closed it again, and transformed back into its original wood-block-with-handle shape. "Nice job," she had said, and then wondered whether the box had any sort of feelings. You never knew, with this sort of thing.

 

* * *

 

So far it had been a pretty good year for Oliver Wood. The Gryffindor team had won two out of their three matches so far, losing only to Slytherin. Damn their brooms. Just getting a better one for Charlie alone would help, but he knew the Weasleys couldn't spare the money, and he had the good sense not to talk about it except in terms of the whole team. They all felt guilty for having asked McGonagall about any rich alumni, since it was so clear that she, too, wished she could find some, and felt awful about not being as socially sophisticated as Snape. It would be awfully nice, though.

Charlie had been making Fred and George practice not only in the forest, but on the pitch, and with as many as five regulation bludgers at a time. That last one was impressive while it lasted, but had ended with half the team in the hospital wing overnight. Charlie had decreed that the pitch would henceforth be for practicing quidditch as it was actually played, with experimental exercises restricted to practice balls and more secluded locations. That was fine with Oliver, who had admitted that Fred and George had improved under Charlie's training regime, but who was also loathe to reveal any secret advantages if at all possible. Charlie had been less than enthused with Oliver's suggestion to hold practices at night, but there was always next year!

 

* * *

 

In a sixth-floor corridor well away from any classrooms, there was dense fog from one end of the hall to the other, and it was raining. Fred and George had expected to get in trouble for it. They had expected Dumbledore or Flitwick to come around and dispel it. They had even gone back to check several times, just to be sure. Nothing—the hall remained as foggy and rainy as they had left it.

The lesson they had learned from this, aside from the charms work, was that an unnoticed prank was not very much fun. Clearly they needed an actual indoor thunderstorm for anyone to notice, but they hadn't worked out how to produce one yet, and Sirius was only dropping hints.

Mr. Padfoot, as they preferred to think of him, had sent them a large envelope full of notes, along with a muggle book about bell towers and change ringing. They had not gone back to exploring off the map yet, waiting until they had accumulated a better arsenal of climbing, falling, and gargoyle-wrangling magic.

They had slowed down somewhat in their attempts to master Dumbledore's exercises, which left them more time for Mr. Padfoot's. Somewhere in there they had classes, sleep, quidditch, and the occasional foray into the Forbidden Forest with Charlie, and precisely once, with Percy, who had come along with them on Charlie's birthday a few days ago. Percy had been reserved and polite, neither fearful of the forest nor particularly interested in it, and, according to Charlie, considerably better than Fred and George about not scaring wildlife. Percy had smiled when told this, but didn't seem to know what else to say, and did not volunteer to join them again.

As to Dumbledore's exercises, the headmaster had called them into his office a few days ago to see how they were doing. They didn't really understand what he had said, but it seemed to amount to "you're doing about as well as can be expected given that you're twelve, and I'll start you on some other exercises when I find the time to get them to you." Fair enough.

They hadn't heard anything from the girls. Presumably they were in their rooms brewing something to make trouble for everyone later. Sirius wouldn't say. They appreciated that life had provided them with brilliant mentors and theoretically worthy, if somewhat manufactured, opponents. They truly did. But they were really looking forward to getting a break from all of it.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks ago, the Headmaster had at last paid a visit to Erasmus Eeles, commending him again on his innovative teaching methods, but politely requesting that he actually cover some of the "dark creatures" from the standard curriculum. Dumbledore had pointed out that no other class was set up to cover that material, and that it really was expected that it would be part of the Dark Arts class.

Eeles had simply laughed and told the old wizard "alright, have it your way! I'll figure something out." He got the impression Dumbledore had been looking forward to further sarcastic comments at the expense of British Wizardry, but he _was_ the Headmaster, and it was his school. Eeles made no religion out of not teaching to the test.

The first problem he had come up against was that the existing textbooks were terrible. Oh, certainly, there were enough useful parts that he didn't feel guilty about requiring students to buy them. But there was no year for whose classes he was using more than half the textbook—the rest was total garbage.

Personally, Eeles thought that teaching "monster safety" ought to be Kettleburn's department, but it was painfully obvious that safety was an alien concept to the wizard with one and a half limbs. So Eeles started sketching out what he thought needed to be covered, based partly on the Ministry testing standards and partly on Kettleburn and Hagrid's estimation of what creatures students were likely to actually meet. He initially drew this up as a large chart, grouping creatures by their danger level and the techniques needed to subdue or evade them, and listed within groupings by likelihood of encountering one.

At the bottom of the chart, under "Flee, Avoid, Dangerous" were various dragons, nundus, manticores, and such, with the Hebridean Black and Welsh Green at the top. Off to the side, under "Patronus Charm" were dementors and lethifolds. Diricawls were near the top, under "Tasty". It was not meant to be methodical, just practical.

Eeles had eventually decided it would make a nice poster, which, with the help of a good illustrator and print shop, it eventually did. "Professor Eeles' Guide to Dangerous Magical Creatures, Being a Study Guide for O.W.L.s, N.E.W.T.s, and Short Camping Trips" was a full-color, 3' x 5' print, complete with animated drawings of the various animals, and text that appeared, disappeared, and moved around in response to poking. At the bottom, after the "Dangerous!" section and its enumeration of dragons, he had included a "Very Dangerous!" section consisting of intelligent beings and beasts—goblins, vampires, merfolk, centaurs, and the like. In the middle of _that_ were drawings of Eeles and Kettleburn themselves, waving and holding a mirror between them (the printer was quite proud of getting that to work); beneath them, in elaborate script, was simply the label "WIZARD".

The effect was something like walking into Albus Dumbledore's office and being faced with all of his arcane indicator devices—the nearly 100 illustrations waved, walked around, pawed the air, breathed fire, bared their teeth, or fell asleep, depending on the creature. Wizards, of course, loved that kind of thing, and in fact everyone he had shown it to had been impressed. Admittedly, at this point that was just Hagrid, Kettleburn, and Dumbledore, who had each been delighted with their complimentary copies, but Eeles was confident the venture would be a success. In fact, success was pretty much guaranteed, since Eeles shamelessly declared the Guide to be a required school supply for all students by the time of their return in January.

The entire thing cost a mere 15 sickles at Flourish and Blott's, slightly more if shipping and handling were required. So, even after paying the printer and illustrator, and giving the bookstore its margin, he expected to make a tidy profit of several hundred galleons off of Dumbledore's one explicit order to him.

He planned to spend a good four or five class periods going over it, too. This, on a word-per-hour basis, would still make it enormously more useful than any of the required textbooks had been so far.

 

* * *

 

Severus Snape had never been keen on writing his own potions textbook.

It wasn't unthinkable—although his students produced an ever-flowing stream of errors breathtaking in both originality and stupidity, there was also no shortage of recurring mistakes with which they managed to annoy him again and again. Perhaps he could write a small pamphlet—101 Things Potion Students Do Wrong—but he recognized his inability to keep snide comments down to a level acceptable for publication. Perhaps, someday, if he found a good editor, he'd consider it.

There was a second problem, too, which was that plenty of good potions textbooks already existed, and much of what he could personally bring to the subject consisted of esoteric, hard-won knowledge which he wished to keep to himself. Attempts to separate his pet peeves from his own little secrets would, unfortunately, result in a lot of border cases. In short, he expected the writing and editing process would become a vicious, emotionally-draining whirlpool of irritation at the world and at himself.

Nevertheless, Severus had been doing a great deal of research into the existing potions curriculum, and even more thinking about how he might like to change it. He had concluded that, although the list of potential beneficial innovations in potions teaching was long, it did not include a return to traditional creature-dissection skills.

His complaint about students being unable to extract their own ingredients was not wrong, exactly, but he also had to admit that nearly all unrestricted ingredients were now available commercially in consistent, pre-processed forms. Very few of his students would wind up exploring in the jungle, seeking out new magical species to cut into pieces and experiment on. If a student _really_ wanted to learn how to extract things themselves, they got an apprenticeship in the relevant area when they graduated. Anything else was purely for hobbyists and obsessive do-it-yourself-ers.

So the advent of standardization meant he had more time to teach other, more interesting material. In Trelawney's classes, going back to the old ways made sense, because the old ways _actually worked much better_ , however much they offended modern sensibilities. There was no analogous justification for any similar, backwards-looking "reform" that restored supposedly "lost" skills to the Potions curriculum. He was self-aware—he knew all his rationalizations for doing it anyway amounted to useless, pureblood-style cringing at the imported middle-class muggle ideals of professionalism that had made standardization possible. Severus Snape prided himself on only getting irritated for _good_ reasons; the world provided those in wondrous abundance, and he had no time for the bad ones.

 

* * *

 

Oren Wayland was anxious to get home, so he could spend most of his vacation in the library. It had been, overall, a nice few months, but he actually did have things he wanted to get done—things somewhat more adventurous than a new silence system for the library—and it was seriously frustrating that everything useful here was in the Restricted Section, assuming Hogwarts had it at all.

His sister would probably bug him the whole time, but that was okay. Maybe he could even rope her into helping without giving himself away somehow.

 

* * *

 

For Albus Dumbledore, the good and bad of the past six months had been, more or less, a wash. His anonymous, but so far extremely credible, ex-Death Eater had given him so much to worry about that he had broken his vow to deal with new information promptly. However loyal his supporters might be, he needed them to also be reliable and competent.

Hagrid, who not only believed in the near-mythical basilisk, but had resented it for decades, was only too happy to be asked to keep roosters around, "just in case." Dumbledore didn't really think Voldemort, if he returned, would bother with the basilisk when powerful curses would do. But the headmaster would look very stupid indeed if that happened and he hadn't take _some_ precautions, especially if it got out that he had been forewarned. The basilisk was a well-understood, if deadly, adversary, and Dumbledore suspected that fussing with the school wards would be pointless against Salazar's pet, so really there was not a lot of useful work to be done about it. The problem of the basilisk, in this respect, stood in stark contrast to the several dozen other major problems Dumbledore faced right now.

If the letter writer had made good on his threat to tip off other wizards, no one had said anything about it. It was unclear how an ex-Death Eater thought they knew who Dumbledore's closest friends were, but there wasn't anything to be done about it now.

On the other hand, the capture of Peter Pettigrew and release of Sirius Black was an unequivocal victory for the light. And, he now admitted, so was the transfer of Harry Potter away from the Dursleys, inconvenient threats of Ministry investigations aside. Perhaps best of all, if all their advice proved useful, the letter writer was giving him the opportunity to go on the offensive, preparing against a return of the Dark Lord. Yes, Dumbledore thought, as he picked at his potato, most of his problems were the sort he very much wanted to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this were a novel, I'd put "END OF PART I" here.
> 
> I now have long lists of things to write which are marked "(done)" and posted. Going forward will feel like a second narrative chunk, from my perspective, and I want to get it sorted out and going in the right direction before posting any of it. From a reader's point of view, you probably won't see the next chapter for a while, and then I will post about a month of story-time all at once.
> 
> In the meantime it would be nice to see this thing accumulate more ratings and reviews. I have not yet had the nerve to show this to anyone who actually knows me, so for now, the reviews are all the feedback I've got! And I really do appreciate them.
> 
> Authors can see a per-chapter hit count for their stories, updated once a day. So I can tell that at least 70 people will read a new chapter within 24 hours of posting it (either that or someone or something is refreshing it over and over; I choose to believe I have some readers).
> 
>  **I am especially interested in getting reviews from people who read the whole thing from start to finish in one go.** I am not too proud to suggest you recommend this story to your friends, if only so that I can get feedback from readers who aren't getting it fed to them chapter-by-chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all! I will return to posting eventually. In the meantime I'll still be obsessively checking various stats to see if anyone read this or commented. :)


	35. Christmas:  Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 35: Christmas, Harry

 

Friday, December 21, 1990

 

Harry was sitting on a long and uncomfortable couch, facing the fireplace in the Longbottoms' living room. It was shortly after breakfast, and Dora and Sirius had convinced some friends of theirs to help take him shopping and sightseeing today.

Harry was skeptical that anyone would actually try to hurt him, but understood that the adults were very protective of him, and not just trying to be mean or strict. Unfortunately, their protectiveness meant that the most he had been out of the house since he returned from St. Mungo's was some illicit exploration of the woods near the Lovegoods' place. At least in Little Whinging he was allowed to walk around the neighborhood as much as he liked, even if the Dursleys _were_ hoping he would get lost and never return. So Harry was very, very appreciative of the effort Sirius and Dora had gone to in convincing Mrs. Longbottom and Professor Dumbledore to let him go today.

The flames turned green. First Dora, then Sirius, stepped through, each giving him a warm hug. Sirius had brought a wooden box. "I have an early Christmas present for you, Harry. May we come up to your room and show it to you?"

"Sure!" He assumed Sirius mean the box, even though it wasn't wrapped. Maybe it opened and the present was inside? He had never gotten a _real_ Christmas present before, and wasn't sure what to say. 'Don't act like Dudley' wasn't enough of a guideline to be of much help.

Harry's room in Longbottom Manor was very large, and much of it was taken up with furniture, books, pictures and the like which the Longbottoms had stuck in a former guest room for lack of anywhere better to put them. Mrs. Longbottom had found some photos of Harry's parents, some of them with him, or with their friends, and had put them around the room; she had never said _how_ she got the photos, she had just gone and done it. Other than that, though, there was no decoration that was distinctly Harry's. It was still a long, long way from the cupboard under the stairs.

"Wow, Harry, I can see your floor!" exclaimed Dora upon entering. "That never happened in my room when I was your age. Of course you have less stuff than I did. Sorry, that sounds bad. But you'll get more clothes and stuff over time, I'm sure."

"We'll make sure of it, in fact," added Sirius, smiling and looking at a photo of about 20 people in it, which Mrs. Longbottom had told Harry was "The Order of the Phoenix", a group of people who had opposed Voldemort. She had pointed out Neville's parents in it, too, explaining what had happened to them as best as she was able.

"So, Harry, this is for you." Sirius held out the box for Harry, handle first, and he took it. "Put it down on the floor so I can show you what it does—right there should do. Great. Now, this is something like a trunk, and you'll be able to take it with you to Hogwarts in the fall." He was already getting school supplies! "Have you ever seen a magic item that talked, or that you talked back to in order to make it work?" That sounded exciting—a talking trunk?

"You call out where you're going when you use the floo!"

"Anything else?"

"No." He was sure he'd remember it.

"Well, wizards make a lot of magic items that work that way. Probably more than they need to, since it doesn't always make things easier to use. I guess it's fair to say wizards just like it that way?" Sirius looked at Dora for confirmation; she nodded. "Anyway, this thing here looks like a box, but you can tell it to take different shapes, which I'll have you do in a bit. I got this for you in India, actually. The man who made it is a famous artist, or, at least, relatively famous, as wizards go, I guess. Anyway, his name is Gurunath Gavaskar, and he spent about three weeks customizing it just for you. I'm not sure what that means. I am absolutely sure it is safe, at least for you, but there's no actual way to prove it."

"Basically what Sirius means is that all Mrs. Longbottom or any of the staff at Hogwarts needs to know is that it's a trunk made by this guy, and they'll know what that means. But they might worry if they knew exactly how complicated it is, so you shouldn't go talking about it more than you need to. You'll see one of the reasons why in a little bit. Okay?"

Harry nodded. He wondered what was meant by 'complicated'.

"Right," continued Sirius. "So this is a very versatile, very smart, and hopefully very pretty, container. I wanted you to be able to store an awful lot of things in it, and like Dora said, you'll see a reason why in a moment. What it does not do is fly, or follow you around, or anything to help you if it gets lost. And it doesn't talk, it just responds to speech. Gavaskar has a thing against magic items that talk back to you. Let's make sure it knows where it is, shall we?"

Sirius addressed the box, which made Harry giggle, having never seen anyone do that before. "Trunk, I'd like you to meet Harold James Potter, that's Harry—my godson, and the Boy Who Lived. You're in his possession now. Treat him well." Sirius looked up. "Okay, Harry, let's have you tell it to look like a trunk."

"Er, hi. Could you please turn into a trunk?"

Harry's eyes went wide when it started to transform, and he jumped back. Eventually it took the shape of a flat-topped chest, the size of an average foot locker. Gone was the plain wood. The ends of the trunk were decorated with inlaid peacocks displaying their tails, different shades of wood standing in for the colors. The top and front were an intricately carved forest scene, with flowers, vine-covered trees, and monkeys. Harry liked the monkeys, which had detailed and realistic fur, and were shown in motion, swinging and climbing. "Gavaskar said those were gray langurs, and that they are a repeated theme on this thing. That's all I know—I haven't seen this scene before." Harry decided he liked this artist.

Harry walked forward and lifted the lid. The inside was simply plain, polished wood. "If you were looking for it to be bigger in there, you should have told it what you wanted," explained Sirius. Bigger?

"Sirius, we should probably tell him about the mail before Remus and Hagrid get here."

"Did you put up the privacy charms?"

"Yep. So, the trunk is a present from Sirius. I sincerely hope that neither you nor I ever figure out how much he spent on it, but you now have a _very_ valuable piece of artwork, which you should take good care of, although I understand it can defend itself exceedingly well." The trunk, apparently wanting to demonstrate, suddenly crackled with purple lightning, flickering over its surface, then disappearing, its point made. "There is some possibility it is hoping someone will try to steal it or break in. Don't encourage anyone to try, please. Anyway, the trunk already has a great deal of stuff in it, which I put there while I was at Hogwarts.

So. When I first started sending letters to you, I realized they weren't getting through unless I added extra details to the address like 'Longbottom Manor'. So I put a tracking spell on a letter—you know I'm good at finding things, right?" She grinned. "Anyway, it didn't go anywhere but up, so I got on my broom and flew around the school looking for it. Turns out there's this tower with a redirection spell on it, which Dumbledore set up to receive all of your mail. I don't know when he thought he was going to tell you about it, or if he even remembered it, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't know I found it.

Dumbledore is the sort of person who hides information from kids for, he thinks, their own good, and generally tries to control everyone around him. He's a good man, and he got that way because he was running the war against Voldemort, but he never really stopped fighting it. He makes more sense if you remember that. Usually.

Now, Sirius and I . . . we're not like that. I wanted to make sure you got your mail, and I didn't want Dumbledore to get his hands on it, either. So I asked Sirius to get me a bunch of trunks to store it in, that I could then bring to you when I came back over break. Instead he got you one very fancy trunk, hoping you could use it for other things as well." Harry laughed.

"So I took it up to that room and packed all of your mail in it, aside from some things that were destroyed by mice or had food or something in them that had gone bad. There are a few things you have to understand about your mail.

The first is that there is a lot of it. If you filled this room with it, it would be many feet deep. People have been sending you mail for the past nine years.

The second thing you should know is that I read some of it, for which I apologize, but I couldn't resist the temptation. I guess I'm only sort of sorry about that. Don't forgive me quite yet!" She said, laughing. "Anyway I divided it into three types. The first is just that I used a spell to sort out junk mail, which seemed to work okay, and I told the trunk you'd probably want to look at it last, if ever. The second group was everything else, except for a few dozen letters in the third group.

Uhh. That third group of letter . . . is not something you can ever let anyone else know about besides the people who sent them, okay? It would be extremely mean for you to do it, and while Sirius and I like playing pranks, we're serious about this—you absolutely must protect the privacy of the senders of these letters, as best as you are able. I told the trunk to do everything it could to protect them. I already know about them, and Sirius knows in general what's in them, but no one else besides the senders does. So if you want someone to talk to about them, do it with me, in private, okay?"

Harry nodded.

"Don't just nod. Was I actually clear?"

"I think so? What's in the letters?"

"The letters I sorted out are all from girls who, at least at the time they wrote them, thought they fancied you." Harry had no idea what to make of this. "You have to remember that you are the _only_ celebrity your age among British wizards. So all the attention that, in the muggle world, might go elsewhere, gets concentrated on you. I didn't look at all your mail—so there might be others like these in the other stuff. I don't know.

We'll talk to you a lot about how to deal with girls, and try to send you off to Hogwarts as prepared as we can. My advice about these letters, specifically, is to remember that more people in the world will want your time and attention than you can possibly do anything for. You don't have to reply to these letters. You don't have to be anyone's girlfriend, and you probably shouldn't unless you would have liked them without their asking. Harry, you're really nice, so I'm sure you will want to make other people happy . . . be really, really careful. Don't let anyone think you will pay them more attention than you are sure you can give them, and are sure you want to give them—otherwise you might hurt their feelings.

I'm not saying you can't write back to these girls, or go say hi to them when you meet them in school. So long as you respect their privacy, they might like it even if you just said something like 'Hi, I'm Harry. I got a letter from you when I was eight. I'm only ten and I'm not interested in girls yet,'—assuming that's true—'but your letter was really sweet and it made me happy that people were thinking of me. And don't worry about me telling anyone else about it, because I won't.' Or, something like that. I think that's all I've got. Sirius?"

"Gavaskar said to leave him alone with it for a few minutes so it can get to know him. We should go downstairs and wait for the others. Harry, meet us downstairs in a few minutes?"

"It's not going to do anything like ask for his blood, is it?"

"Merlin, no. Gavaskar never does that—says it's pretentious. I don't know what it needs, though, Harry, so you'll have to figure it out on your own."

With that, they left, shutting the door behind them. Harry didn't like the comment about blood, and tried to think of what else it might do that was just as bad. He didn't want to keep anyone waiting, though, so he hurried along.

"Hi, trunk. I'm Harry Potter. I think you are supposed to do something now to get to know me." That seemed to do it—the trunk expanded towards him until it was square, and then grew upwards until it was about a foot taller than Harry. The designs morphed with it, trees growing in proportion or vanishing off the edge, other decorations appearing on the new surfaces. On the front, two trees now reached across at the top, framing a door, which now had a life-size monkey on it, sitting on a branch with leaves in the background.

The door swung open. Harry stepped up to look inside, leaning in. The back of the door and the back wall had similar forest or jungle scenes to the outside. Sticking his head in, lights turned on in the ceiling, which had an inlaid copper waterlily design, with light coming off of its three flowers. The right wall had writing on it, the left a framed picture. Harry stepped in to get a better look, and the door closed after him.

The picture was a wizard photo of a cheerful, bearded, presumably Indian man. Handwritten across it was "To Harry," at the top, and the artist's messy signature at the bottom in both roman script and one with characters he didn't recognize. The writing on the far wall was etched into the wood, with English at the top, and the other language below. Harry assumed they said the same thing.

 

 _'Closet of the Monkey God' Rosewood etc. and copper, 1990_

 _Purchased by Sirius Black for his godson Harry Potter, Christmas 1990._

 _Customized by the artist for the Boy Who Lived, in the hopes that he may henceforth be the Boy Who Lived Well._

 _Gurunath Gavaskar_

 

The "monkey god" reference struck Harry as most likely disrespectful to some religion; as with all aspects of muggle culture, wizards seemed to have a very dim grasp of muggle religion, yet cheerfully appropriated its symbolism when that suited them. Harry doubted that wizards elsewhere pulled this off much less badly than the British.

The door swung open again. Harry assumed that was good enough for now, and stepped out. "Um, you should probably look like a trunk when I'm not around." It dutifully shut its door and changed back.

He wasn't even sure what the thing _was_ , but Harry's first real Christmas present was a nicer gift many times over than everything he had seen Dudley get over the years, combined. This was obvious already, even though Harry had only seen a few things it could do. Sirius had managed to find a practical gift that was also a toy—Harry was old enough to be impressed by this, and young enough to really appreciate it.

Dora, too, on top of the fact that she had rescued him from the Dursleys, had managed to get his mail—a room full of it, she said—out of Hogwarts without being noticed. He didn't really understand the process, but it was clearly not easy or risk-free.

Harry had spent the first few months in wizarding society being scared that it wasn't real, and would all go away. The only real exceptions were when Ron or Luna or Ginny were around, and he didn't have time to be anxious. By now it was clear that he really did have friends, some of whom were very powerful and wealthy, and who cared about him. He had even gotten past the point of worrying that they only liked him because of his parents or Voldemort.

Mostly, now Harry worried about the fact that there was absolutely no way he could ever repay their kindness.

 

* * *

 

When he got downstairs, Sirius and Dora were talking to Mrs. Longbottom in the living room, going over plans for the day. They talked about a lot of things he had never heard of, and then Mrs. Longbottom spent a futile moment trying to use magic to control Harry's hair. "You're lucky Harry. You've got three of your father's friends to look out for you today. Remember that you are only ten, so you are entitled to ask lots of difficult questions about everything. This is something I expect you to do. I'm sorry this can't happen for you more often, but you know how much is at stake in keeping you safe."

Harry didn't, really, but that was okay for now. "I'll try to stay out of trouble."

Dora looked at Sirius. "Hagrid is running really late. Should we call for Remus anyway, and wait outside?"

"I think so. 'Remus Lupin'," he called into the floo.

Soon the four of them were standing outside in the snow. They were dressed for the cold weather, by wizarding standards at least, and protected by warming charms where their clothes would otherwise be inadequate.

"Harry, have you ever met Rubeus Hagrid?" asked Remus. Harry shook his head. "Sirius! Hagrid would have come as quite a shock if you hadn't warned the boy."

"I hadn't though of that. We were busy planning."

Remus looked unsatisfied, but let it go. "Hagrid usually goes by his last name, much like your friend here, who I am told will hex me if I call her the wrong thing."

"I will!" She didn't sound very threatening, though.

"The thing Sirius should have told you is that Hagrid is a half-giant, so he is very big. I was worried that might alarm you. You needn't be afraid of him—he's an old friend, and one of the nicest people you will ever meet. He was also the person who took you to the Dursleys, under Albus Dumbledore's orders. He might be somewhat emotional about that, and he probably feels guilty. I know I do." Remus went silent, looking at the sky.

"We invited Hagrid," explained Sirius, "because he was a member of the Order and a friend of your family, Dumbledore trusts him to keep you safe, we trust him to let us spoil you a little, he's excellent for making a path through crowds, and also he borrowed my motorcycle and is bringing it back."

"Is he riding it here?"

"We hope so."

"Why are you all looking up?"

"It's a flying motorcycle."

"Oh."

Remus, falling into his familiar role of 'the organized and responsible one at least compared to Sirius', looked like he wanted to get going sooner rather than later. "Let me try to reach him with my patronus. Harry, Dora, I'm about to send Hagrid a message using the patronus charm. The fact that you can send messages that way is something of a military secret, invented by Dumbledore and known only within the Order of the Phoenix, so far as we know. I'm sure he'd want you to learn it eventually, and I trust you to keep the secret . . . Actually, I have a better idea. Dora, can you produce a corporeal patronus?"

"Maybe if you called me 'Tonks' I could." She stuck out her tongue.

"If only it were always that simple! Very well, _Tonks_ , would you please cast the patronus charm?"

"Yes, if you promise not to make too many jokes about it."

"Of course. Many witches and wizards have patronus animals they are embarrassed by, but you should be proud if you can cast it. I promise to be non-judgmental, although I might still laugh. I can't speak for Sirius, and Harry has nothing to compare it to."

"Um, that wasn't exactly it, but let's get this over with." She looked like she was concentrating on something, then smiled, then blushed. "Expecto Patronum!"

Her silver wolf shot from her wand, turned around, and sat looking at her.

Remus looked a little worried. "Oh. I see. I'll ask you about that later. I'm sure Sirius is struggling to make a joke out of it as we speak, but I certainly won't make fun of you for it. Very impressive, by the way." He smiled, warmly, almost sympathetically. "What I want you to do is talk to it—tell it to go to Hagrid and ask him where he is and when he'll get here." She did this, and it took off in a streak of light.

It returned two minutes later with Hagrid's reply, which it repeated in Hagrid's voice. "Jes' takin' her out fer one las' spin. I'll head right over." A few minutes later, the sound of the motorcycle heralded its arrival over the trees. Hagrid circled, and seeing nowhere better to land, simply plowed into the snow on the lawn in front of them.

Harry applauded, which turned out to be the right thing to do.

"Harry! C'mere. Let me take a look at yer. Jes' like James, jes' like James. He'd be so happy. An' Lily's eyes, too. You know, Harry, I was the one who dropped you off at yer relatives, an' I'm right sorry fer that. None of us knew they were . . . they were . . ."

"Nasty, abusive, wizard-hating arses who deserve whatever happens to them once the Ministry gets tired of protecting them?" suggested Sirius.

"Somethin' like that. Hopefully we can make up fer some o' that today. Got the portkeys righ' here. Sirius, she's all yours agin." He patted the bike. "I'll miss 'er, but 's worth it jus' to have you back wi' us. We didn' know, you know . . ."

"It's okay Hagrid. The only ones I'm mad at are the Death Eaters." He walked over and inspected the bike. "You kept up with the maintenance—thank you! So, Harry, have you ever traveled by Portkey before?"

Sirius explained that Hagrid was too big for the floo or a broomstick, which is why he had loaned him the motorcycle to get Harry to safety. Dumbledore had provided several portkeys for them today, including one back to Hogwarts so that Hagrid could get home.

Hagrid had pulled a ring of rope out of his pocket, which had a tag hanging off of it saying "Diagon Alley".

"Before we go," said Remus, holding up his hand, "while I'm sure Sirius has explained what's happening today,"—he glared at Sirius, who probably had done no such thing—"there's still the matter of your scar. We'll be noticeable enough with Hagrid and Sirius, but maybe we can get everyone to pay attention to them while ignoring you. Bearing that in mind, I have brought along a very sophisticated magical device which will conceal your scar somewhat." He reached into his pocket, pulling forth a small black lump. A wave of his wand caused it to enlarge, springing into the shape of a pointy, floppy-brimmed wizard hat, which he placed on Harry's head. "Hm. I wanted it to be a little big for you, but that's a little much. Here . . ." Remus transfigured it into place. "As I said, very sophisticated, although I lied about the magical part. It's just a hat." Harry laughed. "If it works as a disguise, though, you may keep it and use it again."

"You know, Remus" said Sirius, "you're going out with a famous former prisoner, the Boy Who Lived, and Britain's only half-giant and only metamorphmagus. Even if people knew about you, you'd still be the normal one!" Everyone laughed, but Remus had a long-suffering look that Harry interpreted as 'if only that were true.'

 

* * *

 

Harry decided he liked portkey travel much better than apparation, but less than the floo. They had arrived in a side-alley selected by Dumbledore for being out of the flow of pedestrians. It was odd having everyone with him—it was the complete opposite of going places with the Dursleys.

Harry had been very curious to see a real street wholly within wizarding society. His idea of a normal wizard, or at least his best guess at one, was some combination of Neville's, Ron's, and Dora's mothers, but it was awfully hard to get a handle on with so little data. A quick glance around, after the initial awe of stepping out into the Alley itself, was enough to reassure Harry that, while magical people had _very_ different fashion senses than muggles, witches with vultures on their hats were not an everyday thing.

The Alley was just as amazing as he had hoped. Dora and the three adults spread out around him, Tonks and Hagrid a little ways in front of them, Sirius holding his hand, and Remus hanging behind. The evidence was subtle, but Harry got the feeling that the theoretical wizards who wanted to hurt him would have a very hard time of it, if they tried anything. He had never seen wizards fight, or really anything close to it, and was curious to know what it looked like. Just not enough to want to get attacked by Death Eaters.

Everyone seemed to agree that they should start at the bank, explaining that Harry should learn how it worked, and that his family had left him money that he ought to go check on. Harry had point blank asked how much, to which Sirius responded not only by saying he didn't know, but with a complicated explanation of wills, trusts, and interest versus principal, only being cut off by their actual arrival at Gringotts.

The goblins were odd-looking, and their expressions struck him as a little predatory and maybe even mocking, but not actually hostile. Sirius had produced Harry's vault key, obtained from Mrs. Longbottom. The two of them followed Griphook the goblin off to a side door while the other three took care of their own business at Gringotts.

It wasn't a broomstick, but the vault ride was, by far and away, more fun than the floo, portkeys, or apparation, and he had said so, after some undignified screaming along the way. The goblin had actually grinned.

When Griphook opened the vault door, Harry had simply stared at the heaps of coins inside. He knew there were 17 sickles in a galleon and 29 knuts in a sickle, but not what that meant in practical terms; he didn't really expect the wizarding economy to have much to do with the muggle one. Sirius had looked mildly surprised, and started asking Griphook some questions while Harry walked around inside the vault.

"How much is in there?"

"About three hundred fifteen thousand galleons."

"And this is . . . a trust vault?"

"It would be available to all Potter children, were there more, yes. The trust is set up to get a percentage of income from certain investments associated with the main vault. There are other terms, of course, but that's how it normally works. For the past few generations, the Potters have married young, but had only one child per generation. So the amount that was spent earlier this summer was the most anyone has withdrawn in the past century."

"Ah. That makes sense. Alright, Harry—I found this around the house and enchanted it—we'll try to get you a real pouch later today." Sirius threw Harry a bag, which he snatched out of the air. "Nice. Hmm. May I come in?"

"Sure."

"I want to try something—I apologize if this offends your sense of decorum, Griphook, but I have to know something." He picked up a handful of knuts. "Catch!" He started tossing them to Harry, who caught each one, even as Sirius started tossing them faster and further out from Harry's body. None of the knuts got by; Sirius was delighted. "You have your father's reflexes, Harry. He'd be overjoyed to have watched that just now. I miss him.

Sorry, Harry, I shouldn't stand here moping today. I want you to fill that bag with galleons, then put a handful of sickles and knuts on the top so you have change—we'll change a bunch of it for pounds before we leave the bank, too." He watched Harry's face for a while as the boy scooped up handfuls of coins, definitely taking his time, and discovering along the way that gold was in fact very heavy. Eventually the bag looked mostly full.

"Now, we have been given very few instructions by your guardian, because I convinced her that the four of us would keep each other in line or something. I'm sure she was swayed by my overwhelming charisma. Anyway, the one strict rule is that you may only buy presents for a small list of people—her and your friends your own age—and spend no more than six Galleons total on those gifts, which should be _plenty_. The rest of us think that's a good rule too. Don't worry about the rest of us this year—you'll have plenty of time in the future for that. Okay? As for the rest, I don't expect you to spend it all. So you ought to have some left to stash away in your trunk when we're done."

 

* * *

 

Their next stop was not somewhere Harry had expected to go that day: Ollivander's wand shop. Tonks had gone in before them all and made sure it was empty; they followed her while Hagrid remained outside, presumably to look intimidating to people who didn't know him well. Sirius said almost no one bought wands at Christmas, but that Ollivander did a brisk business then, selling unnecessary accessories to wizards looking for gifts for people they didn't know very well.

Ollivander's was the first real wizarding business Harry had ever been in, and the floor-to-ceiling piles of boxes were more than adequate at living up to his imagination.

 

It was about thirty seconds of waiting patiently before an old man came out from the back. "Hmmm. Hello there, Miss Tonks, Mr. Black, Mr. Lupin. And who might this be?"

"Go ahead, take off the hat," said Sirius.

"Oh. Well then. I was wondering when I would see you in here. You _are_ in here for a wand, aren't you?"

"If he's not too young, yes."

"Well, that's a very individual thing. Personally I think most children could at least be _matched_ with the right wand at a very young age." Ollivander sent a flying tape measure at Harry, who treated it like some strange animal he was trying not to spook. "Of course, no one listens to me besides a few old families who know better and want an advantage for their own children. Excellent proof that I'm right, but I get no word-of-mouth advertising out of it. Alright!"

He summoned the tape measure back, its work evidently finished. Harry had no idea what it did, since Ollivander never seemed to look at it.

"My way would, of course, lead to pressure on the Ministry to decouple their Trace from the usual matriculation dates for magical schools, which I'm sure they'd resist because of the expense. Not my problem, nor is it yours. In any case you really will be free of the Trace until you head off to Hogwarts, so I expect you to make good use of that time, young man!

Right. Enough of that. Let's get you started!"

He pulled a wand box off the nearest shelf, seemingly at random.

"Go on, give it a wave!"

Nothing happened.

"Hm. This?"

A loud bang.

"Nope, I guess not, but that's an excellent sign . . ."

An hour later Harry walked out of the shop with a holly and phoenix feather wand. Sirius and Remus had looked shaken by this, but Dora hadn't looked surprised, and Ollivander had been positively excited, giving him a lecture about how he should Do Great Things with his new wand. Harry was not sure why there was any significance to who else had a wand core with feathers taken from the same phoenix at the same time. Given that only Sirius and Remus thought anything was wrong, Harry decided that sometimes wizards were superstitious, just like muggles. Of course, it didn't make the two of them look any happier when Harry responded to the Do Great Things lecture with "I'll do my best, sir!"

 

* * *

 

The rest of the morning was spent wandering up and down the alley, more with the goal of going in everywhere and letting Harry see it than actually shopping, although they did buy a few things, including presents for Harry's friends. Sirius insisted on getting Harry a decent money pouch and a set of robes 'to wear to Christmas dinner, but that he'll probably grow out of'. Harry didn't object when told to wait until after Christmas to get anything new for himself.

Around noon it was time for lunch. They saw Hagrid off, after he handed over several sets of portkeys for the afternoon. Hagrid was too conspicuous to include him for lunch or a trip into muggle London, and Dumbledore's main concern had been for the Diagon Alley portion, where Harry was more likely to be recognized.

Getting ready for the next leg of the trip involved casting quite a few spells to make their clothing less noticeable to muggles. Harry thought it would be easier to just wear muggle clothing, but kept his mouth shut. It later became clear that neither Sirius nor Tonks _owned_ much in the way of muggle clothing, a situation they would partially rectify that afternoon.

Dumbledore had wanted them to eat lunch in a muggle restaurant where they would be less likely to be recognized, and had provided several suggestions. Sirius had openly wondered whether Dumbledore had really spent enough time eating out to have opinions on these places, or whether he had run around searching at the last moment just to impress everyone. In either case, the old wizard succeeded at remaining mysterious, and the little Indian place they selected had good food and a booth suitable for privacy charms.

"So, Sirius," Remus began, after watching Tonks cast every single one of the seventeen privacy charms he had suggested, plus two more he hadn't. "Who all _have_ you told about my condition besides, er, _Tonks_ , here."

"What? Me? No one. It wasn't me, I swear!" Sirius was grinning.

Remus turned to Tonks, who had contrived to sit next to him, and across from Harry, leaving the two adults on the outside in case of emergency. "Um, Tonks, as far as I can tell, you have been very understanding, but there are a lot of wizards who aren't, and I would—"

"—it's okay Remus. I get it. I was only casual about it because I thought everyone here knew. Um, I told Harry, but that's it."

"And I didn't tell anyone! I can keep secrets. Don't get mad at Dora. She was just explaining why I couldn't stay with you after she took me from the Dursleys."

"How . . . I'm confused."

"She said you were her first choice because you knew my parents, but that you couldn't get custody because you're a werewolf."

Sirius raised his eyebrows, watching Remus' face.

"So you knew about it well before Sirius got out of prison. I admit, I'm puzzled. Please explain."

"Nope!"

"Remus, she's like that all the time. Knows everything about everyone, won't explain how. I'd bet galleons to knuts she knows _way_ more about you than she lets on, and if you ask her how she knows, she'll try to use it as leverage to get you to take an occlumency course."

"He's right, Remus. You'd end the conversation deeply disturbed. I'm a horrible stalker."

"Come now, Dora, I rather think you are an excellent one!"

She stuck out her tongue. "Thanks, Sirius. I think. It really _would_ make my life easier if all my friends would learn occlumency, though. Speaking of which, I know it provides resistance to veritaserum and the imperius curse, but does it work on love potions? I've never heard. But it would be awfully convenient if it did."

"Way to change the topic, there, Dora! My textbook never said anything about other potions either. I'll ask my tutor."

"Oh, come on, we already agreed to talk about it. Anyway. See, Harry, how to put this . . . I've overheard a lot of girls talking. And I think it is very likely that someone is going to try to slip you a love potion while you're at Hogwarts. At least once."

"Probably multiple times!" added Sirius.

It was bad enough that there were people out there who supposedly wanted to kill him. They wanted him to fall in love with them, too? "But, why?"

Sirius whistled. "That's kind of a tough question. There's no single answer."

"But," continued Tonks, "it has a lot to do with the fact that you're a celebrity. They probably won't try it your first few years, but I really wouldn't want to place any bets on that. Especially if it's Slytherin girls doing it as a prank."

"Now, as pranks go, it's not so bad," Sirius explained, "because they're probably not going to want to keep dosing you with it. Love potions don't last more than a day or so, but if you can keep dosing someone with it, you can maintain the effect."

"But someone who has, well . . . other plans for you, they'll try to keep doing it . . ."

 

* * *

 

Sirius, Remus, and Tonks had tried to cram a great deal of advice into Harry in one go. Harry wasn't sure he'd ever be able to apply any of it when the time came, but he appreciated the effort. He was, in fact, pretty sure they would _keep_ trying to give him advice for the rest of his life, so he wasn't worried about remembering it in the immediate future.

By itself, either the morning in Diagon Alley or the trip into London would have made for one of the best days Harry had ever had. Together, they were wonderful but exhausting. He came home with two shopping bags full of, among other things, muggle clothes. Mrs. Longbottom had specifically asked Sirius to make sure he got some, as he had never owned much in the first place. Harry, then, returned to his room eager to see what his trunk would do with all of it.

The trunk obliged him, becoming in turn a dresser, a cabinet, and a small chest, depending on the object he asked to put in it. It wasn't wholly practical, but it seemed like it was _designed_ to work that way, and he ought to give it the chance to fulfill its purpose. Also it was fun to watch.

All attempts to think of it as something other than an intelligent entity failed once Harry had finished putting things in it. He had asked it to return to a trunk, but instead of the previous jungle scene, there was a similar one with a foot-wide copper disc in the center. This grew upward, liquidly, into a statue of one of the monkeys from the carvings. It grinned at Harry, as best as a monkey could, and waved.

"Awesome! So are you supposed to be, like, the trunk itself?"

The monkey looked confused, frowned, shrugged, and scratched its head.

"Sorry. Are you the brains of the trunk?"

The monkey frowned thoughtfully, cocked its head to one side, made a weighing back and forth gesture with its paws, and finally shook its head 'no'.

"Okay. So, something for me to talk to, then?"

It smiled and clapped its paws, bringing them together without touching to avoid making noise.

"Cool! That's helpful. I mean, I like you already, but it's weird talking to furniture."

The monkey nodded, as if in understanding.

"So, can you be anything other than a monkey?"

It grew two extra arms, and looked at him hopefully.

Harry giggled. "That's okay, I think I like monkeys. You can have as many arms as you like."

After some experimentation, it decided that proper monkeys should have no fewer than six arms, although twelve was probably too many.

"So, are you also supposed to guard the trunk?"

Its paws were suddenly holding various bladed weapons, which it waved around dramatically with a very serious and determined expression on its face. Its eyes glowed purple, it crouched down, it demonstrated that it could pick up at least one foot at a time in order to achieve some ridiculous poses. Harry had the feeling it was trying to entertain him—which it was being quite successful at—and that if actually threatened, any fight would be settled with a quick stab or bolt of purple lightning.

"Was one of the things Mr. Gavaskar did—when he set things up for me specifically, I mean—was one of those to change your personality to one he thought I'd like?"

The monkey nodded happily, retracted its weapons, and replaced them with various jingly percussion instruments Harry didn't recognize.

"So were you very serious at first, before he changed you?"

It looked sad, and nodded.

"Well, I like the way you are now. I think I had better get to sleep, though."

The monkey sat down cross-legged, then stretched and wiggled its toes.

"Um, I don't want to disturb you, but you have my pajamas in there."

Harry couldn't honestly say this method of storing things was efficient. It was, however, awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on porting the ten missing chapters to Archive of Our Own, finally. Original notes follow:
> 
> I have at long last decided that my next few chapters are the way I want them and in the order I want them! It has gotten kind of ridiculous, since after posting this I still have almost 60k words between now and mid-January, story time.
> 
> Over the holidays in the story I will not be going day-by-day and jumping from character-to-character, but will instead do one plot line, then the other. For some reason I had convinced myself readers wouldn't tolerate that, which was silly, since I probably had it backwards.
> 
> Once again, I remind everyone using alerts to read these that I edit quite a bit after uploading, so waiting half an hour or so would probably give you a better experience. Would that I were so popular...


	36. Christmas:  Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonks meddles with things in person for once, and goes to see Hermione.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 36: Christmas, Hermione

 

December 21, 1990. Evening.

 

"So, I think that went pretty well, don't you? Did you spoil your godson enough?"

Tonks had followed Sirius home after seeing off Harry and Remus, and they were sitting in the library discussing the day. The drawing room reminded Sirius too much of having to deal with his mother and her friends, so he had been spending a lot of time in the library.

"Well, in terms of attention, definitely. In terms of Christmas presents, well, that will just have to wait. He took it pretty well, being told to wait a few days and see what he got. Most kids his age would at least squirm, in that situation."

"So do you have plans for what you're getting him?"

"A few. There's the broom, of course, and a bunch of practical things like books he can get a head start on—even if the Longbottoms have copies, he'll want his own at school. Lots of candy. Beyond that, I'm not sure. He's at that tricky age where he might still play with some toys, but is growing out of a lot of them. Do you have any suggestions?"

"Not really, no. I think you handled it pretty well today, buying Harry and me those muggle clothes without making Remus uncomfortable. I was impressed."

"Remus and I have been friends for a long time. I doubt I could have done that with anybody else."

"Thank you, by the way. I know it's not much money relative to the Black assets, but it's still not easy to do all that without being awkward. I would have screwed it up, if it were me."

"Why, thank you! I think that's the nicest thing anyone has had to say about my social skills since . . . I'm not sure, actually. I don't seem to inspire that sort of compliment very often. On the subject of finances, though, I have been meaning to ask you . . ."

"Yes?"

"Do you have any nefarious schemes I ought to be investing in, that I don't know about?"

Tonks smiled. "Plenty! 'Ought' is a vague word, though. And there are just as many that require time as money. But the short answer is 'yes'. That is, depending on how much you are looking to invest."

"Let's start small. What would you do with a hundred galleons and a few days of my time? My time, of course, is in great demand these days. The owls are just swarming around bringing me party invitations, and there's a horde of girls out there on the street as we speak, crying because they can't find my door to knock on."

"Hah! I think that's the closest thing to deadpan humor I've ever seen out of you. Must be a good sign—having a day out probably helped? Anyway, a hundred galleons and a day. Hmmm.

So, hypothetically speaking—"

"Oh, come on Dora, we both know it's not hypothetical. If you started in with 'So, Sirius, hypothetically speaking, if I, say, knew the location of Atlantis', I'd go ahead and start thinking of water-breathing charms and treasure-hunting equipment. What is it?"

"Well, not Atlantis. You probably know more about that than I do. So, don't ask how—"

"Aaannd I know better than to do that, too, now. Go on."

Tonks grimaced for a moment, trying to strip all the qualifiers from whatever she was about to say. "There's a muggleborn witch, Harry's age, who will probably be in Gryffindor with him, and who is smart enough to learn the contents of any book we can throw at her between now and when school starts. Given the deal you just offered, I'd drag you to a used bookstore and get you to help me find several years worth of textbooks and anything else we can think of, then buy them. Then I'd try to tell her she's a witch without her freaking out, give her the books, and convince her to let us buy her a wand. Then we'd contrive to introduce her to Harry before school starts. Very high return on investment, but I don't have the funds to do any of it myself."

"Sounds good. I'm in. There, that was easy, wasn't it? Come with me tomorrow, and we'll get a copy of everything we get for Harry, too. And it doesn't have to be used, either. Heck, if she lives somewhere she can get away with it, let's get her an owl, and she can ask us for help if she gets stuck . . . is the idea to have Harry get help with his homework?"

"Well, that too, but only incidentally. I think Harry's smart enough not to need help, assuming he can be convinced to do his homework in the first place." Sirius chuckled—that was fair, and just like him and James. "I was thinking more along the lines of outsmarting Death Eaters if it comes to that."

"Thaaat was barely even hypothetical, and I didn't like the sound of it. How bad is it? You don't have to give me details, but what are we looking at? Full scale war again? A small resurgence and a mop-up operation?"

Tonks looked thoughtful for a moment, and stared into space. "That's hard to say. We have some opportunities to outmanoeuvre them, and there are a few unknowns that could swing their way. If they do everything right and we do everything wrong, things will be at least as bad as the last war. I'm not sure how to do everything we might want to do on our side, so I can't really say what the best case is."

Sirius nodded, slowly, then stopped. "I'm not sure I feel any more enlightened than I was before. I wish you would tell me more. Although, I suppose I might not be asking the right questions. Could you just give me a list of things you want to have happen, without regard to cost, or trying not to scare me, or what my feelings might be about being asked to—horrors!—do actual work? Surely you can tell me something more."

"Well, a lot of it's obvious, right? Make sure Harry and his friends can fight off Death Eaters if they have to, and that he has a lot of those friends, although that would be good even without the Death Eaters, of course. Always act like the Ministry is completely compromised, figure out where we're relying on it, and stop. Assume Fudge is too blind to admit that the dementors are disloyal. Assume your bitch of a cousin will eventually escape. Plan accordingly, whatever that means, and no I don't have any good ideas yet. Put at least some basic wards up to protect people we care about, like the Burrow, or Remus, even if they fuss about accepting charity. Heck, take the time we are not being attacked and learn to actually make better wards. Like, say, it would be great if Dumbledore would just tie Snape to a table in his office—"

"—I like this already!"

"You would. Tie him to a table and not let him leave until Dumbledore understands the Dark Mark better than Voldemort ever did. Can I borrow a piece of paper?"

"Uhhh, here. Here's a pen."

"Great." She scribbled something down and passed it to Sirius.

\------------------

Malfoy and the like could order their house elves to do their dirty work for them. I wish we knew how to stop that. Destroy this note NOW.

\----------------

"Damnn! I don't think that happened in the last war, though."

"We got lucky. It only takes one of them to think of it. But really, these are all very practical, very generic things. The Death Eaters will already be expecting us to do them, and it's just a question of whether we are stupid or lazy enough to sit on our asses and do nothing instead."

"They weren't all that obvious to me, but of course I hadn't spent any time thinking about them, _because I didn't know I ought to_. Now that you have finally given me some idea what we're dealing with, I might be able to help. Don't underestimate your demented old cousin."

"I don't. I'm just not comfortable asking for that much. It feels like I ought to be adding 'and also I want a pony' to the end of it all."

"I think you were also playing at being Dumbledore, and not in a good way."

"What? Keeping too many secrets, never delegating, treating my friends like weapons, making the fate of the wizarding world rest on my shoulders, and then having everyone's lives hang on whether or not I make some stupid screw-up? At least I'm not wearing purple robes with orange polka dots."

"Dora, your hair is purple right now."

"Damn you. But no, I don't want to be Dumbledore, at all. And I'm finding it really hard to not act like him sometimes."

"I'll try to keep you in line, then. So, book shopping tomorrow?"

"That would be great."

"Do you also want a pony?"

"No. It would probably bite me."

 

* * *

 

It had been a nice change of pace to be able to use a regular pointing spell to find the Grangers' house. She had done it at night, on her broom, after leaving Sirius' place, and apparated into the back yard directly after her shopping trip with Sirius. Tonks had disguised herself as a woman in her thirties, with relatively normal muggle clothes and hair-colored hair.

Hermione's parents weren't home, which Tonks hadn't expected. It made things a little easier. Although, unlike Sirius, Hermione had patiently allowed Tonks to get through her entire carefully-prepared hypothetical, Hermione had also taken her for some sort of cult member trying to distribute religious literature. It was . . . not an easy conversation.

Tonks had begun with something like this:

"You're Hermione Granger, right? Can I talk to you for a few minutes? You don't have to let me in if you don't want to, it's okay."

Hermione peered through the door, cracked open with the chain in place, trying not to let too much cold air in.

"Do you know what an allegory is? Excellent. Will you listen to me for a bit while I tell you one? Thanks, Hermione. I know you'll think this is kind of weird, but please just hear me out, okay?

So, imagine a story book, where there was a girl with magical abilities, who would eventually be going to a school of magic with other children like herself. And, imagine you were part of that magical world, and you learned about her, and found out she was really smart, and a really good person, and you were sure she'd do a lot of good some day. But the rest of the magical people didn't know these things, because she wasn't quite old enough for the people who run the school to go looking for her yet.

And assume you, the person already in the magical world, had a wealthy backer, so you could quietly, secretly, without the school or anybody else knowing, get her a set of her textbooks a little early, and maybe some other things if she wanted, and the only condition would be that she could only tell her parents, because in that country only magical folk and their blood relatives were allowed to know about magic.

Now, this wouldn't work so well for other children her age, but this girl is really smart—smart enough to learn everything you could think of to teach her. So it would actually be possible to give her a head start, and she'd definitely enjoy it.

And maybe the magical world wasn't all goodness and light, even though the girl clearly was, at least by your standards. So you had a sort of selfish motivation, too. Got all that? In that story, you'd try to slip the girl some books, right?"

"An allegory is an extended metaphor. So I think it depends on what the metaphor is for, right? It's clearly about some sort of ability that the person giving the books believes in. That could be something real, like science and engineering, or some people might think all of what you just said could apply to politics, or maybe the arts. Probably not the arts. But it might also be religious, or the person could be delusional.

We're assuming the person just shows up at her door, right, like this? If the girl is smart she's going to suspect it's a trap, that there's something dangerous about the books, or that there's going to be something else she has to do, and she'd worry that the person would use the books to lure her into a trap that way. And within the, er, metaphor again, if there _were_ bad people in the magical world, they'd want to use her, too. So she would probably be scared."

"Oh." Said Tonks. "There were a whole bunch of problems in there that I didn't think of. I'm not sure how to fix them. I hope you can. Sorry. Okay. Let's try this again. Say I am standing here, offering you a whole bunch of books about magic, with the only condition being that you don't tell anyone other than your parents, and you explain to them that it's illegal in Britain to talk about it to non-magical people. And assume that for most magic, at least until you're really good, you need . . . let's say, a wand, and you have to try a bunch of them to find one that works for you. And assume the . . . wand-maker isn't going to want to bring his whole wand shop around to your house. The person at the door is offering to take you to buy a wand—will buy you whatever magical . . . school supplies you want, and will even take your parents along too—but you don't know whether to trust them. Then they offer to show you magic, trying to prove to you that it's real. What would you do in order to decide whether or not to accept the books?"

"Well, the tests of magic would be easy—don't take anything they suggest, since they wouldn't suggest something they couldn't do. You'd have to try to come up with something that can only be done by magic, then ask them to do it.

The second part—the question of the books and the wand shop, I mean—depends on deciding whether they are one of the good magical people or the bad magical people. I think most people have a good intuition for picking strangers they can trust, but not when they don't do the picking. It's very hard to decide whether to trust a stranger, you know, when they're the one who approaches _you_. If there were a universally applicable test, they'd figure out how to cheat at it beforehand, right?"

"Does that have anything to do with magic?"

"Not from the girl's point of view!"

"I really didn't think this through beforehand."

"Well, what _are_ you actually trying to do? This is a very interesting conversation, but I'm letting cold air in, and I wish you'd get to the point. If this is some sort of joke, it's a bad one."

"What do _you_ think I'm trying to do?"

"I don't know. I don't think your allegory is helping. I'm clearly the girl, right? And you are trying to get me to accept some object, probably books, because you know enough about me to think that's what I'm most likely to accept."

Tonks looked dejected. "Yes, that's all correct. And you're right, if I _were_ trying to trick you, I'd definitely use books as bait or whatever, but I wasn't thinking like that."

"But you don't have the books with you, or else there's only one or two."

"What if I said they were in boxes in my pockets, and my pockets were bigger on the inside than the outside, and the boxes had been shrunken?"

"Then, I could ask you to show me, but I still wouldn't know whether it was a trick, or if you were a good or bad person."

"Hermione, speaking entirely not hypothetically, I really, truly am trying to give you textbooks ahead of time so you can get ahead in the school you will be starting at in the fall. I'm going to sit down on the step here if that's alright." Tonks sat down, staring at the cement in front of her.

"Why not try to get the school to do it? Why are _you_ doing it?"

Tonks flailed her hands. "Because Headmaster Dumbledore will fuss and fiddle and say you're too young and that keeping you going at the same pace as the other students is for your own good, and you should be allowed to have more of your childhood . . . I don't know _why_ adults insist on doing things that way, and _yes_ I disguised my age so that if anyone read your mind I'd stay out of trouble, but I am apparently doing a lousy job of everything today. But to answer your question, I was planning on just letting you go at your own pace instead of deciding what it should be. Haven't you had that problem in your primary school?"

"I have—all the time! But that's also what I would say to me if _I_ were trying to convince me." _Now_ Hermione sounded like she was having fun. At least somebody was. Then, more seriously, she added "if you are not actually talking about a school of magic, at this point it would be mean of you to keep pretending, and I think you should stop."

"Come up with a test."

"I don't know what magic is supposed to be able to do."

"If you read the books I'm trying to give you, you would."

"And I'm still not sure whether you're trying to pick on me."

"I apologize for the way I said that, then. You didn't deserve that, and I'm sorry. Please come up with some way I can prove myself to you! I'd have to do it where no one else can see, of course, just like you would."

"Okay. Can I have a few minutes? Go around to the back door and wait for me."

Tonks sat on the back steps for something like five minutes, wondering what Hermione was up to. She hoped the girl didn't pick too many impossible things.

Eventually the back door opened. Hermione looked a lot more cheerful. "Okay! I think I have some good ones. Can you do things through the crack in the door?"

"Sure."

Hermione took a deep breath, and looked really nervous. She put an apple down on the kitchen floor where Tonks could see it. "Can you turn it into gold?"

"Not permanently, but yes." Tonks took out her wand and did so.

"Oh." Tonks saw Hermione reach out to try to pick up the apple, and fail. She did manage to push it along the floor a little. "Could you keep it that way long enough to trick someone?"

"You could trick someone who couldn't do magic. But a wizard would know to check. And you would get in a _lot_ of trouble if you were caught, specifically for passing off fake gold, and maybe also for violating the Statute of Secrecy."

"Okay. Can you make it float?"

"Let's see . . . yes."

"Can you make it bigger?"

"Yes, but not infinitely so." Tonks got it to about half again its original size.

"Can you turn it into a chicken?"

"What? I think I'd have to put it down first. And the chicken wouldn't be permanent, either."

"Okay. Put it down and turn it into a chicken." Tonks did this, and the chicken immediately sped off out of sight, clucking.

"Oh! I didn't think of that!" shouted Hermione, running off after it. She returned a minute later, holding the squirming chicken. "I cornered it in the bathroom. So is this a real chicken?"

"I'd say no, but that's sort of a philosophical question, not a magical one. Like I said, it's not permanent."

"So you could do things to a fake chicken that you wouldn't do to a real one."

"Some people would. I'm not comfortable doing anything to a transfigured animal that would hurt a real animal."

"If I cooked and ate this chicken, what would happen to me?"

"It would eventually change back into apple in your body, possibly after it had been used for things. You could get sick and maybe die."

"Do you normally change things back, or let them change back on their own, when you have an animal?"

"Um, I've never let it go until the magic wears off. You're trying to ask me a moral question, I think, but basically I'm just uncomfortable trying the experiment and don't have a good theoretical justification for it. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't just fail some test."

"No, that was fine. Go ahead and change it back to an apple." Tonks did this. "Is the apple safe to eat?"

"Provided that there's nothing bad that got onto it from the floor while it was gold or a chicken, yes."

"So, I should wash it first."

"Right."

"Okay, here's a paper cup. Can you fill it with water?"

"Yes. Conjured water is actually safe to drink, unlike food. It's a different kind of magic. I can banish it—make it go away—but that water there is just water. It isn't magical and dispelling it wouldn't work."

"Okay. Freeze it . . . Would that freezing spell work on a living thing?"

"Yes."

"When would you cast it on a living thing?"

"I probably wouldn't. If you are in a really serious fight, there are various reasons for not casting the same spells over and over. Wizards might try a lot of things to throw off their opponents, some of which can be quite cruel. Given the difficulty of using it effectively in a fight, and that it would have serious effects, I can't see myself ever using it outside of some contrived situation. I won't lie to you, though—wizard duels can be extremely nasty."

"Do you know a lot of spells that are only good for that?"

"For fighting? Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"I won't tell you right now. It's complicated."

"Will I be expected to learn them?"

"A few of the less cruel ones, for class, yes. Otherwise no one will really make you learn them. It would be best if you did, though, I think. I'd worry about you a lot less. And you'd be better able to protect your friends."

There was silence from the other side of the door for a while.

"Turn the apple into a stick of wood . . . can you break it?" Tonks sent the weakest _reductor_ she could at it. The two halves skittered off across the floor. Hermione retrieved them. "Fix it. Oh. Is the fix permanent?"

"Sort of. It is slightly less structurally sound than before, but the magic won't decay. There are only so many times you can break and fix something before it's just held together with magic and you can't push it any further. I don't fully understand how it works. You eventually will."

"Can you use magic to heal people?"

"Yes. You can cure all sorts of things with magic that you can't cure otherwise."

"Do you ever feel guilty about not sharing that with non-magical people?"

"Ouch. I'm going to say no, which you probably won't like, but hear me out. Whenever wizards have tried to live alongside of muggles—that's a wizarding term for non-magical people—it has always ended badly. The muggles fear the wizards but keep making more and more demands, and eventually it ends in everybody fighting everybody else. Maybe, once in a while, if it can be done without violating the Statute of Secrecy, wizards will secretly help muggles out. But that's hard to do without being found out. It's really not a fair question, Hermione."

"What's the name of the school?"

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Is there a difference between witches and wizards?"

"Argh. Not magically, and everyone knows that. There is slightly less inequality than in the muggle world, but it's not perfect."

"Do students bully each other at Hogwarts?"

"Yes. I don't know how it compares to muggle schools. The staff tries to prevent it, but can't catch everyone. And kids from wealthy, powerful families get away with more, just like in the muggle world. And I warn you that you will _not_ like how wizards treat other magical beings. I'm sorry. Wizards are far from perfect, Hermione, and sometimes they're downright awful, but you can't change them from the outside looking in! _Somebody_ has to be willing to stand up to bullies, or to Dark wizards, or to whoever is in power wherever you are. _You_ would do it. I know you would.

But you would also meet really nice people and make real friends. I promise you there are more good wizards than bad."

"Why did you start this whole thing with an allegory?"

"I thought you'd enjoy it."

"That's it?"

"Pretty much, yeah. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. I mean, I didn't want to just say, 'Hi Hermione, you're a witch, here are your textbooks for the next seven years, and I need you to start studying right away, just in case we need your help fighting a war later.' That seemed like it wouldn't be any fun. Normally the school sends out a fancy letter, and that's how you learn, if you're muggleborn. I didn't want you to feel like you lost out somehow. I'm really, really sorry if I botched it. I made a terrible first impression, didn't I?" Tonks paused. There was silence. Crap. "I'm so, so sorry Hermione. I thought I could just walk right up to you and it would be fine, but I was just withholding information and you must have thought I was teasing you, which I _should_ have realized you were sensitive to if I weren't a _moron_ , and you're such a nice person that you don't deserve that." Tonks was sniffling, and didn't hear Hermione walking around in the kitchen until she heard the door close. Her heart sunk, and then she heard the chain being lifted and the door opening again.

"Come on in. Here's a tissue. Are you okay? Your disguise didn't last—did you know that?" Tonks shook her head and walked in, blowing her nose and drying her eyes. "I like you better this way. Come sit down in the living room. My parents should be home soon. I'd understand if you didn't want to stay and meet them, but you can if you want." Hermione showed her into an armchair. "Can I see the books?"

Tonks wasted no time getting two boxes out of her pockets, quickly expanding them into large wooden crates. "All yours. All seven years, plus anything my cousin and I could think of to throw in. You'll start this upcoming September. I'd particularly appreciate it if you worked on the Occlumency book some between now and then—that's exercises to keep people from reading your mind."

"Are you a student too?"

"Yeah, but I'm in my seventh year, so we won't overlap any. I'll introduce you to everyone I know, though, if you want. So, um, right now my parents think I'm at my cousin's place, and he knows I'm here, and the two of us are the only ones who know you exist. Er, well, you know what I mean."

"How soon could I get a wand?"

"Well, the shop's open now, but it could take up to an hour to find one for you. It's like trying on clothes, but worse." Hermione giggled—it was the first time in a while she hadn't seemed either deadly serious, or like she was trying to beat Tonks at some game.

"Hermione, is everything okay? I really was trying to not botch this. It's supposed to be fun and exciting."

"Oh! I'm sorry. It's just that you started off making me think about story books. In books, whenever the hero learns that magic is real, they go off doing stupid things, and I hate it when they do that. I decided once that _I_ would never be like that. Just in case it ever happened, I mean. I didn't really expect it to."

Tonks grinned. "That sounds like a challenge. Well, maybe not to get you to do stupid things, but to not be quite so serious all the time. That's my cousin's job. Ahh, forget that for now—I think your parents are here. If you have any idea how best not to scare them, I'm all ears."

"No you're not. You only have two. Unless you meant you were going to transfigure extra ears on yourself?"

"No."

"Okay. Let me go catch them . . ." Hermione ran out the door. It was about five minutes later that she entered, a smile on her face, followed by her parents. Tonks had met Mr. and Mrs. Granger only once in the previous timeline, and then only in passing, but they had seemed like perfectly nice people. They did this time, too.

"Hi, I'm Ralph Granger, and this is my wife Adeline."

She realized she was supposed to introduce herself, and that she had been pretending to be someone else. That now seemed like too much work to maintain. "Tonks. Just Tonks, for now. It's my last name. I don't like my first." Ralph laughed, and they shook hands.

"I understand my daughter made you wait in the cold for an hour while interrogating you mercilessly, then decided that you must be a good witch because she could reduce you to tears."

"Dad! That's not fair!"

Tonks grinned. "No, that's a pretty good summary of things, at least from my perspective. I mean, I wasn't exactly sobbing, but I needed a tissue at the end. It was . . . impressive. There's a reason I was willing to sit crying in the snow on _your_ back steps. I wouldn't do it for just anybody!"

"I hope you wouldn't mind a small demonstration for us. I must admit I'm still skeptical."

"Sure. Hermione insisted on picking her own tests, since she said I couldn't trick her as easily that way. The only mistake she made was with the chicken, but then I didn't think of that, either."

"She mentioned the chicken. Perhaps you could do something a little slower? Like, say, a potted plant?"

"Well, doing the plant, the dirt, and the pot is actually beyond my skill level. Something else?"

"Actually," asked Adeline, "can you use magic to clean the rug?"

"Yes! That's a great idea, and I'm good at that kind of thing." Tonks then proceeded to clean all the dirt from the rug, dusted everything in the room in one swooping motion, cleaned the upholstery until it looked like new, and had started repairing tears and scratches when Adeline recovered her senses enough to stop her.

"Tonks, I think that will do nicely for now. It was . . . very impressive. I don't know what to say. Also, thank you. Some of that would have been impossible for me to do myself, and you saved me quite a bit of work right there. Hermione, did you ever think to have her try something practical like that?"

"No, mum."

"At least occasionally I can be a step ahead of her. Not very often anymore, though!"

"Hah! Well, hopefully she will be able to pick up those charms pretty quickly. Which gets me to the next two points. First: You two and Hermione are bound by the Statute of Secrecy. It's illegal, at least in Britain, to talk about magic to anyone who isn't allowed to know about it, which means anyone who isn't a wizard or a blood relative of one. So you are legally allowed to know anything your daughter knows, but can't talk about it. Okay?"

"We'll do our best to make sure she stays discreet."

"Dad! I'll be very careful."

"Second, most things wizards do require wands. It's about 4 PM, so there's still time for me to take her to a wand shop and get her one. My cousin is paying for it, and the explanation for that is long. Please don't fuss over it too much, since I have absolute confidence your daughter will be saving the world often enough that nothing we do for her up front will ever compare, so this is really our only chance right now. I know that sounds epic, and it is, but this is Hermione."

"Ooookayy. I guess everyone believes in their own children, so I think I'm obligated not to question all that . . . How do you know so much about her?"

"Unfortunately I'm not sure it will ever be safe for me to tell you, since there is magic that allows people to read minds, and you would be unable to learn the defenses. Unless Hermione invents some other way, of course."

"You seem awfully confident in her."

"I am."

"I'm willing to have her go shopping now, if Adeline and I can accompany her. But I won't let her go off on her own with a stranger, no matter how thoroughly she may have interrogated them."

"That's fair. Let's see . . . we're going to Charing Cross Road to get to the alley where the wand shop is. No time to drive there. Do you mind magical transportation? I can't get all three of you there, though . . . let me think . . . I could go to my cousin's place, go home from there and let my mum know I'll be out with him for a little while longer, since that's where she thinks I am, and then between the two of us we ought to be able to get all three of you. It's the magical equivalent of being able to carry one person on your back just fine, but not three. Sound okay?"

"It's not the sort of thing you say no to, is it?"

"I was hoping you would think that way. Be back shortly!" Even after all they had seen, the Grangers were very impressed to watch Tonks disappear with a 'pop!'.


	37. Christmas at the Burrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore visits to pressure Molly Weasley on various points.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 37: Christmas at the Burrow

 

Tuesday, December 25, 1990

 

The wind whipped the snow into eddies as it blew around the odd curves of the Burrow. Despite the weather, there were enough players for a four-on-four quidditch game. The Burrow had only single hoops, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley wouldn't allow the use of bludgers, but they could have a keeper, two chasers, and a seeker on each team. The game wasn't necessarily better with seekers, in this situation—Charlie had contrived it in order to get a look at Harry, and to a lesser extent Ginny, without them being too self-conscious about it.

He had also contrived, with the collusion of his brothers, to get Harry on the opposite team from him, where he felt he could keep a close eye on him without it looking weird. So Fred, George, Harry and Ron had faced off against Charlie, Bill, Ginny, and to their mother's annual horror, Mr. Weasley. Percy had stuck around long enough to release the snitch and throw out the first quaffle, but quickly got bored and disappeared to his room. Neville and Luna were left watching from the sidelines.

This was Harry's first visit to the Burrow, and it had been permitted only for the few hours Albus Dumbledore himself had come to visit, ostensibly to let Harry out of the house, and in reality to pressure Molly about the wards he wanted to set up. Arthur had simply declared he would go along with whatever Albus could convince Molly of, and went off to play quidditch. So far the quidditch game had gone a lot better than the conversation, and Albus was trying his best not to get flustered.

". . . be that as it may, Albus, it is still, objectively, charity. It's a gift. It's something we could never dream of affording on our own. And Harry _is_ welcome here whenever you think it is safe for him to come. Honestly, Albus, I just don't see why you think everything is so dangerous all of a sudden. There hasn't been one peep of someone so much as saying a bad thing about the boy, let alone threatening to harm him."

"What about your own family? You and Arthur were active in the war. The Weasleys and Prewetts have been on the side of light for generations. If anything ever happened, you would be a prime target. You have seven children, and those children have friends, Molly. The wards Bill put up for you are technically excellent, but without good anchor stones they just can't be made very powerful. Good wards would give you much more time to make an escape or take a stand if the worst came to pass. Why take risks when you can protect so many all at once?"

"The war is over, Albus! Done! That boy out there ended it for us nine years ago. Why are you suddenly trying to fight it again?"

"A fair question. I can answer it only partially." He leaned back in his chair. "As you know, someone with inside information about Death Eater activities has been slipping notes to various individuals, myself included. These notes have had verifiable, actionable advice in them.

That writer _knew_ Sirius Black was innocent and that a trial with veritaserum would clear him, and for whatever reason chose to reveal that fact this year. They knew where Peter Pettigrew was, Molly, and he had been thought dead for years.

My experience with Peter reminded me how perilously close to danger we may come without knowing it, and how cheaply we may sometimes avert it! Even in rat form, good wards would have never let him get as far as your front walk, at least without substantial time and help.

What would you have me do, Molly? Would have me ignore the notes? Because the note I got about Pettigrew only told me where to find the rat and to treat it like a Dark artifact. Nothing else. The writer counted on the fact that I was so conscientious that I would deal with it immediately. Heaven knows why. It was extremely vague. The thought certainly crossed my mind that it might have been a prank. I could have put it off for quite a while.

But I am very, very glad that I did not act unworthy of the faith they placed in me, and that what I actually _did_ was to _immediately_ pull my Deputy Headmistress out of the class she was teaching and go _directly_ to your son's belongings. How long do you consider an acceptable amount of time for a Death Eater to remain lurking next to Percy? Hm? Because I sincerely hope that _my_ answer will _always_ be 'no longer than it takes me to get there.'"

Albus had intended merely to be emphatic, which was ordinarily enough to intimidate almost anyone, but in this case had gotten carried away, approaching actual anger. He was willing to feign a lot of things, but anger was not one of them; this was a rare sight. Molly was shaken, but not moved.

"You know I'm grateful for that. I hate the idea of that . . . thing . . . living under our roof for so long. I just don't see how spending so much on putting rocks in our yard is the answer, even if I _could_ allow it, which I can't. If wards would be so useful, why didn't the school wards catch him? Hm? Those are supposedly some of the best in the world, are they not?"

"They are, but they are not perfect. And this incident has made that crystal clear to me. Which is why _I_ have been examining the Hogwarts wards very closely, and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. There are many more things than just animagi that I would like to be able to catch. But warding the Burrow is almost infinitely less complicated."

Luna was passing through, presumably on her way back from the bathroom. She had stopped to listen in, and had been standing silently behind Mrs. Weasley for some time now. Albus had decided not to let on that he saw her, just to see what she would do. He had never met the girl before today.

". . . and it seems scandalous to pay for it out of poor Harry's trust. How on earth could you propose such a thing?"

"I am not, in fact, proposing such a thing. Sirius Black would be more than happy to cover it if you let him. There are . . . others who would help if I asked, I'm sure, and do so anonymously."

"I don't want anonymous charity! That's even worse! Not knowing what people might think of us?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore?"

"Yes, Luna? Also, Professor, please. 'Headmaster' is a little too formal for me."

"Professor, I think your problem is that you are talking about ward stones and Mrs. Weasley is talking about the idea of ward stones, and you only think you are talking to each other, but you're not. The way you're talking, she'll be bothered by them even if no one ever knows about them but her, even if they never get triggered." Molly had turned around in her chair, craning her neck uncomfortably to look at Luna. She was used to the girl not making any sense, and was waiting for her to complete a reasonably sized block of nonsense before sending her back out to the snow.

"I suggested to Mrs. Weasley that since it was an _idea_ that bothered her, she could paint it pink or blue. But she could also hide it in the ground, or at the bottoms of little ponds, right? Or you could get one full of holes for the hedgehogs to live in. Neville has some exploding moon creeper seeds he wants to try on ours once the last frost is past! I bet he could find something Mrs. Weasley would like, if that would help."

"Luna, you're a sweet girl, and you mean well, at least as best as I can tell, but you should go play and let us be."

Luna acted like she hadn't heard. Molly had at one point been convinced the girl had a real hearing problem, to the point of suggesting to Xenophilius to have the girl's hearing checked. The healers found nothing wrong with her ears, so Molly suspected the poor girl had something off in the head.

"Mrs. Weasley, remember that Professor Dumbledore is thinking of an actual stone, not your idea of a stone. He's a general giving armor to his troops. He wants you to live longer and kill more Death Eaters for him if the war comes." Luna had said this with an air of great authority, talking slowly as if to someone who was having trouble understanding. Both adults looked mildly horrified.

"You see, he's giving you a shield, not a full set of plate mail and a horse. So he's just being a little bit careful right now, not getting ready for war. He's not ordering a cavalry charge yet. I assume he doesn't plan on doing that tomorrow or the next day, either. Does that help?"

"Luna, dear, please. I'm sorry we weren't better at keeping our conversation to ourselves. I'm glad you don't think we are, as you say, preparing for war, but you shouldn't have to worry about these things at all! Now, Professor Dumbledore and I do need to finish our conversation without interruptions."

"Actually, Molly, I'd like to ask her a few questions. In fact, I insist upon it, because to be honest I don't know what Miss Lovegood meant by all that either. Perhaps unlike you, I would rather like to find out."

"Albus, it's all nonsense. Her father fills her head with all of these ridiculous notions—I so wish he would stop. You shouldn't encourage her!"

"I will be my own judge of what notions are ridiculous. Now, I am keenly interested in what this young lady has to say, and I would take it as a personal favor if you would humor me in hearing her to the end." His tone of voice made it clear this was not a matter for debate. "Now, Luna. You said you do not think I am preparing for war. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Professor! That's what I said."

"Regarding the wards and anchor stones I have proposed to place here at the burrow—you have analogized these to a shield, issued by a general to a soldier in their army. Do I misrepresent you so far?"

"No, that's what I said. Or at least, what I meant to say. Your version was clearer, I think."

Albus smiled. "Thank you, Luna. I am genuinely interested in your thoughts on this matter, however they might be expressed. What I would like you to do for me, if you would, is to describe, in detail if possible, what exactly you had in mind when you compared the shield to 'a set of plate mail and a horse'."

He had used his professor voice, and Luna responded, as he had hoped, as if she were in class.

"Oh. Oh. You are worried about the Weasleys because they will be the first target when Voldemort returns." Mrs. Weasley gasped.

Dumbledore waved his hand, saying, "no, Luna, please continue. I happen to agree, although Voldemort himself is not necessarily who I am concerned about." This was clearly not something Mrs. Weasley was expecting to hear.

Luna started in confidently, as if this were a test she had studied extensively for.

"Now, if you were actually preparing for war, you'd have to protect territory, and not just targets. So you would be warding all of Ottery St. Catchpole, and all of Godric's Hollow, and all of Hogsmeade, and probably all of Diagon Alley, but not the Ministry because they're useless and already full of spies. You would do the regular wards of course, everything you could afford that worked on that scale, including anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards for as far out as you could. And those would be a bunch of overlapping ones, so they'd be harder to take down, and you would control them yourself, or maybe a few trusted officers would, so all the residents who weren't on our side couldn't do an inside job. So you'd poke holes in them for the residents only, if you trusted them, but block everything else, including Fudge's army of house elf inferi which he doesn't have. Also, you'd make the wards take anyone trying to apparate or portkey in, and dump them in the lake, where the wyvern-turtles will eat them.

You would make everything you could unbreakable, fireproof, earthquake-proof, and anything-proof . . . houses, windows, fences, trees, rocks, outdoor potted plants, sidewalks . . . you know, everything, not just stuff that _looks_ important.

You'd also have detectors set up somehow, although I don't really understand how those work. But you'd want as much warning of an attack as you could, so you could mobilize everyone who you had trained to fight. That is, you would have trained everyone to fight if they had to, already, without pretending their age mattered when it didn't. And you would have gone through scenarios to test them just like you're testing me now.

And you'd need to have your own version of the floo network that Fudge's bottled eyeballs weren't watching, so you could go from place to place when it turned out the attack was a diversion.

You'd want to have ways to slow the other army down, or force them to take a different path than they wanted. So that would be the ring of whomping willows, for instance. But I think they'd get past those eventually.

Then you have the exploding gnomes on the lawn, and the spitting gargoyles on all the buildings, and the animated trees ridden by tame bowtruckles who would drop acromantulas on the enemy. If they were in the air, your swarm of badger-darters would try to drain the blood from their eyes, so they'd have to land then. Then the life-size, magic-resistant, iron nundu statues would come to life and use their poison breath to drive the Death Eaters into the town square, where the ground would open and swallow them up and the flobberworms would lay their eggs in them!

So, um, those are a few things you would be doing if it were an actual war, just off the top of my head. I don't think anyone has ever listened to me for that long before. Did I do okay?"

There was a moment of stunned silence; Luna was pretty used to those. Dumbledore recovered and pressed gamely ahead. "It was an excellent answer, but now I want you to switch sides, and pretend you are the Death Eaters, or whoever you like, and tell me how you would attack the defenses you just described." He smiled his best professorial smile, ignoring Molly's glares. Mrs. Weasley wasn't even looking at Luna anymore, just waiting for Dumbledore to finish so she could get on with telling him why he was wrong.

"Okay. I guess traditionally Dark armies use Dark creatures, right? They go to everyone the humans don't like, and get them all together. Werewolves, vampires, heliopaths, house elves, hags, giants, dementors. Maybe goblins again. They always use inferi and the imperius curse, to turn the other side against itself.

You might just be trying to keep the enemy—that is, us—busy, leaving you free to do something else. So if you have something big and deadly, even if it's not Dark—like dragons or manticores—that's like having a whole bunch of extra Death Eaters, and those are wizards that won't have to fight the trees or the nundu statues. I guess if you want to capture the town without destroying it, you don't use the dragons or giants. Dark lords don't usually use siege equipment, maybe since it makes too good a target, but Baba Yaga had that hut on legs. It might be good in a battle. I don't know.

For the Death Eaters themselves, since you know the town has a lot of close range defenses, you try not to get in too close, or try not to get hit. You _always_ want to use invisibility or confusion charms—put them on everything in your army that you can, unless it needs to be visible to be scary.

So, from the air, you go higher than the wards and drop anything that will fall through. Preferably something with lots of teeth and a parachute, or that explodes.

In one of the big wars the muggles had they used a lot of poison gas. You can find some equivalent the wards won't block, and wind won't blow away. Maybe you just use it to keep the town inside its own wards, but there are lots of ways to do that. Then you get your spies to take down the wards from the inside, of course, but you do that first if you can, by surprise. Maybe you were there to start with, maybe through the floo, or via house elf if they forgot that.

Then there are big things that only a Dark wizard would try, like controlling the weather, earthquakes, floods, herds of stampeding erumpets, or something that affects the whole town. Dark rituals. Fiendfyre.

You'd try to create as many distractions as you possibly could before attacking your real target. Just set things on fire, release your dragons or manticores or giants, make it so someone _has_ to respond even if you aren't there anymore. Go after muggles if you think the good wizards will want to protect them, but won't also have the resources to fortify say, downtown London. Maybe some Dark wizards want to keep the Statute of Secrecy, though?

So, I guess, overall, in summary, the defenses might prevent a surprise attack and give the people time to escape, but you could probably force some sort of a fight. When you did, you'd want to use tricks to substitute for having a big army, like making the enemy be busy with something other than you, or getting them to actually go somewhere else entirely. Unless you had a big army, like I guess Grindelwald did? I don't think you are expecting a really big war like that again.

Is that enough?"

"That's also excellent, but—"

"Albus!"

"Molly! I have a reason for doing this. I'm trying to prove a point to you. Please listen. Now, Luna, I want you to imagine you are back in charge of defending Ottery St. Catchpole. How do you stop a bunch of giants from destroying it?"

"They're spell-resistant, right? So regular magic won't work. You _might_ be able to knock them over if you can bind their legs with a magical chain. You can stab them with sharp things—conjured weapons, anything with long teeth, spikes you put under their feet. Actually muggle weapons would work very well on giants, but wizards might not want to use them."

"Vampires?"

"Not very powerful. Have everyone keep a lot of garlic around?"

"Werewolves?"

"A lot like vampires. Like a very fast, very dangerous wizard who you don't want to get bitten by. Train everyone to recognize them, and set extra guards during a full moon."

"Dementors?"

"You make sure everyone knows the patronus charm and teach people to recognize the effects. The best defense is to be indoors with the dementors on the outside, I think. So, you would teach kids to run to the nearest available house, and have everyone recognize their neighbors, and have house wards let them in, so they get to safety right away. If you can have a portkey that can only take one particular person, give everyone a few of those. Not having emergency portkeys is weird. Dementors are hard to deal with, I think. Early warning systems for them would be really helpful. I don't have a good answer, but I'd get somebody smart to look for one."

"That's actually one of your best answers so far! How would you handle wizards on brooms who were trying to attack from the air, maybe from a long way off? Assume a swarm of animals won't do."

"One thousand invisible bludgers that are also on fire."

"I suppose that's one way of doing it. Okay, one last question for now, but don't go anywhere when you're done. What would you do about Dark wizards attacking muggles as a diversion?"

"It's supposed to make me feel overwhelmed, so I wouldn't let it. Sometimes you can't save everyone and you have to choose who to save. I would probably save Ottery St. Catchpole entirely rather than put half my defenses here and half elsewhere. If you're besieged, though, you will eventually lose if you don't hunt the enemy down and attack them. Maybe you can use magic to track them down?

If you can prepare traps, like getting the wards that shoot up right away to keep the enemy from escaping, and if you can detect an attack soon enough, and you have a team of people ready to go, you can use the enemy's attacks against them. Instead of just saving the town, you'd be trying to kill all the Death Eaters that are there. Maybe you could learn to dispel the imperius curse without it costing you time, so you can go after the real ones.

I don't know how to do any of that, of course, but I assume somebody does, or could figure it out if you told them about it now instead of after the war starts."

"Again, a truly excellent answer. Stay there. Now Molly, I hope you see why there are wards on the Lovegoods' place, at least."

"Come now, Albus, a lot of that was her usual nonsense, and the rest was a sign she's disturbed. She shouldn't have to think about all those things. It was all impractical!"

"Expensive or unorthodox is not always the same thing as impractical. I didn't tell her she had a limited budget, remember. She might have a few misconceptions and genuinely fanciful notions, and she did not get into the outright cruelty of the Death Eaters, but her answers were shaped in large part by my questions. Maybe they were bad questions, but they were good answers to those questions.

Overall, from a military standpoint, her ideas were sound, and I shall be sure to consult her if I ever need to invade, say, a medium-sized country. Although I, too, wonder how she was able to come up with all that so easily."

Albus looked expectantly at Luna, who bounced happily. "Oh, that's just because the anonymous note-writer told me to. They must have known you would ask! I'm so glad I studied for it."

This was not within the range of answers that either Albus or Molly was expecting.

With a twinkle in his eye, Dumbledore started asking about the note writer, but as soon as his mental probe touched her, she screamed and collapsed.

"Please don't try to read my mind, Professor! It's not a very nice place and no one but me should have to go in there."

He was stuck in Luna's memory of watching her mother die; he pulled himself free before it could repeat. "Luna, I am truly sorry. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I think. No one has ever tried that before."

"I had only wanted to make sure the note-writer was not somehow manipulating you in a way you weren't revealing. I apologize for the intrusion, both in its impulsiveness and, apparently, my heavy-handedness. I pride myself on having a light touch. Please believe me when I say I would never knowingly hurt a student. I won't try to do that again unless it is a real emergency, okay?"

"Okay. Just try to warn me, if you have to. It really hurt."

"Would you mind telling me what exactly the note writer said, and what you did?"

"A few days ago they sent me a note. One of the things they said was that they wanted me to be able to fight, in case Voldemort or the Death Eaters came back and I needed to protect my friends. So I read all my father's books on defense, and all his military history. That was actually a lot of books but I finished them. And then I went over to Neville's place, and his parents were aurors . . ."

"That will do. I get the picture. Thank you. I was particularly pleased to hear you say you would simply go ask questions of people who knew things you did not. This is very wise of you, and I wish more wizards thought like that . . . I might ask you later if you had anyone in particular in mind.

Now, Molly, as I was saying, everything Luna said was sound, give or take a creature that might not exist, and given the context of the questions I asked. If you could implement her ideas, they might not be a winning strategy by themselves, but combined with the right elements they could be very effective. Terrifying, actually."

"But you can't implement most of them! They're crazy!"

"Is that so.

Hm.

In any case, Molly, Luna is a remarkable girl who I think is well worth putting extra effort into protecting. But she isn't unique in that regard, nor, I suspect, is she unique in her creativity. Certainly I do not wish her to have to think about war, and on that point I think you and I are not at odds." Albus looked at Molly questioningly; she nodded. "That said, it is folly not to recognize her future value to us, given the kind of insight she has just demonstrated.

Alas, I am making my point in a roundabout way. Let me try a different approach.

My experiment was an ad hoc one, born of impulse, made up as I went along. I had hoped, once I heard Luna's first few ideas, to discourage you from underestimating the children here.

Would you care to repeat the experiment? Hm? I think you know how it would go. If not, it would be fascinating to test!

Consider, if you will, that many of her doubts concerned wards. Shall I call in your eldest son, who is one of Gringotts' top curse breakers, and the best student of wards that Professor Flitwick has seen in years? We could have Luna go over all her ideas with Bill, and see what they could come up with working together.

Or perhaps that wouldn't be good enough—she _was_ more focused on creatures than on wards. Why not call in your next oldest son, who gets top marks in Care of Magical Creatures and excellent ones in Defense? He is, incidentally, the only student Hagrid has ever come to me about, asking for me to give them permission to go into the Forbidden Forest alone. I said no on principle, of course, but I have no doubt that Charlie's ability to navigate it unscathed is second only to my own, and his knowledge of it is second to no one in living memory. Perhaps you would like to hear what _he_ had to say about Luna's creatures? Hm?

Or perhaps you think your eldest two are exceptions. I wonder if your third would change your mind. You might underestimate Percy, but I don't. You know, he is one of the only students to pay attention in History of Magic. Certainly the only one in his class. I bet he's read a lot about wizarding wars, and would have exceptional insight as to how and why the various magical beings have historically aligned with Dark Lords. In fact, I bet he's one of the few people you know who can name more than two Dark Lords, and nearly all of those who can name _three_ are counting _me_. I also expect he could tell Luna to what extent the Ministry controlled the floo, which wards were dependent on the Ministry, and _exactly_ how the Death Eaters would try to infiltrate it.

Now, I would do everything in my power to stop you from trying it with Fred and George. It would break my heart, because it could never be undone. If I had asked them instead of Luna, they would not have stopped to see if it was enough. They would have turned old and grey and would still be answering the question! You know it's true. I've looked into their minds, Molly, and they have no inkling that their pranks and tricks could also have more dangerous uses. May they stay that way for as long as possible.

Now, I don't know anything about your other children,—"

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes Luna?"

"Ron would know how the bludgers worked. Also you can't beat him at chess."

Dumbledore was smiling—this was better than he expected, and he was an optimist. "I hope to test that claim some day. Thank you, Luna. And what about the youngest Weasley?"

"Mrs. Weasley has done such a good job pretending to be overprotective that Ginny feels like she's never good or competent enough for her mother. Ginny would charge right at the Death Eaters and take them on all single-handedly. She can be kind of scary."

"Albus!"

"Not yet, Molly!! I will finish. Thank you, Luna. I suppose I may look forward to seeing Ginny in my office as frequently as her brothers, then? Now, just for good measure, what about the other children out there?"

"Neville would know dozens of other things to plant besides whomping willows."

"And Harry?"

"Harry has very good luck, and Fate follows him around. He makes friends easily, if he actually wants to. People will listen to him."

"Fascinating. Thank you. I think you have made my next decision for me, in fact. If you would both wait here, I will return in a moment." Dumbledore rose, and strode out the back door into the snow.

Outside, the game was going at full speed. According to Weasley family rules, new games were started when the snitch was caught, and no one really kept a running score. This meant that Harry and Ginny had been getting quite a workout.

Ginny had the advantage of experience in dodging all of her brothers; Harry had the advantage of a new Firebolt. Harry had reliably caught the snitch, but it was a close call every time, usually involving Ginny crashing into him and knocking them both off their brooms into the snow (no one dared mention their suspicion that Ginny _could_ have caught the snitch if she wanted, but was more interested in catching Harry). Harry decided quidditch was a lot more fun in the snow, since it both reduced visibility and provided some cushioning when you fell.

No one had noticed that Albus Dumbledore had joined Neville on the sidelines. He conjured a whistle and blew it. Everyone stopped and looked at him. The snitch, too, whizzed into view, effectively taunting the seekers now that play was stopped.

"I would like to borrow Ron for a little while, if you don't mind. You will all have to rearrange your teams, or convince Neville or Percy to play."

This was met by a great deal of talking, which Dumbledore simply ignored.

"Hi Professor! Does mum need help with something?"

"Not precisely. As you know, I have been attempting—so far in vain—to convince your mother to permit the installation of anchored wards here at the Burrow. Nominally, I am bringing you in to demonstrate a point in our dispute. But," he whispered, "really it's just for fun. Come now!"

Eventually the four of them were sitting in the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley looked irritated and resigned.

"Ron, dear, I'm sorry you got dragged into this. Here, have some cocoa. I know you'd rather be outside playing, but Professor Dumbledore seems determined to push whatever point it is he is making. I can't say I understand it. I suppose you should play along and be polite."

"Thank you Molly. Now, Ron, while your mother and I were talking, Luna walked by and made some intriguing remarks on the subject of wards. One of them was to compare me to a general issuing shields to his troops. I can't say I'm happy with the characterization, of course." A brief look of consternation crossed his face. "She then went on to say that it wasn't as if I had been 'giving out horses and sets of plate mail'. Puzzled by this, I asked her what that would mean in real world terms, and was rewarded with a long and . . . fascinating discourse on magical security and wizarding wars in general.

I then asserted that while Luna's . . . shall we say, creativity . . . might _seem_ unusual, we would probably be very surprised if we had posed the question to some of your older brothers. I, being a meddling and mysterious wizard who is granted some leeway given his old age, have taken the liberty of selecting the person who I do not know and who Luna said the least about. The least Weasley, if you will, in terms of our attention so far.

Please humor an old man and, as your mother says, play along. Now, I suppose I have two questions. The first is—actually, I have a request before we begin. Please try not to discuss this conversation with Fred and George. Your mother and I are concerned that they would never stop thinking about it, and for now we would prefer they concentrate on pranks and not fighting Dark Lords, just for their own sanity. Okay?"

"I'll try, I suppose. I don't think you could get them to stick to only one project if you tried, though. They would probably just use what they learned about Dark Lords to make better pranks."

"We can only hope you are correct." Dumbledore sighed. "Now, my first question is whether you agree with Luna's analogy, that the wards are a mere shield, metaphorically speaking?"

"Sure. It's just one thing."

"What, then, would _you_ consider to be really serious on my part—a real equivalent of gearing up for war."

Ron's demeanor changed. He leaned forward a little and looked alert, the way Molly had seen him at the beginning of a chess match. She sighed inwardly and resigned herself to an awful spectacle.

"May I ask questions?"

"Of course. If I can't tell you the true answers, I'll make something up for you to work with."

"Okay! Who's the enemy?"

"Perhaps the Death Eaters again, or the same group under another name. Presumably stirred up by a powerful leader. A new Dark Lord. Since you are familiar with him, let's play as if there's a possibility of Voldemort coming back. Does that work?"

"Do we know names?"

"Let's say we know a half dozen who are free, and another half dozen currently in Azkaban."

"So, the Malfoys in the first category, and Scabbers in the second?"

"I will say yes."

"Who are the most dangerous ones?"

"Probably the ones in Azkaban, actually. The LeStranges, Dolohov, Rookwood, Pettigrew. Also any Dark Lord they found."

"Let's ignore You-Know-Who for now. How secure is Azkaban?"

"I don't know. You tell me!"

"Okayyyy. Well, I know it's in the North Sea, and guarded by both aurors and Dementors. So we'd ask how easy it is to attack from outside, and how easy from the inside, and we'd want to know how loyal the guards were, and whether they were good fighters. Does the Ministry control the Dementors?"

"No."

"So what are they doing there?"

"They are there voluntarily, because it is a good source of food."

"That's stupid." Ron stopped to think for a moment. "Can the Ministry get enough aurors to Azkaban in time to stop the Dementors if they switched sides?"

"Probably not. Let's say definitely no."

"Does our side have a way of getting there quickly, and the power to stop the Dementors?"

"Are you telling me you do not consider the Ministry to be on our side?"

"Why would they be?"

"Okay, let's assume we aren't trusting them. And the answer is I don't know, you tell me."

"Right. Let's come back to this. What are our resources?"

"Everyone here today. Most of the staff at Hogwarts. About a dozen other witches and wizards. A lot of money. Knowledge, some of it unique, and good libraries. Our own wits. Time to prepare. A few other things you will have to get at by asking."

"Right. What about the Death Eaters who are free—Malfoy and the like?"

"Everyone knows they bear the Dark Mark, but they claim to have received it under the imperius curse. They cannot be forced to take veritaserum, either because of political reality, or immunity. Some of them are powerful, influential wizards with deep pockets."

"So we keep an eye on them as best as we are able, and learn everything we can about them. Do anything we can to weaken them in the meantime. Remove their political support. We're the good guys, right? So we can't just go in and kill them, or the ones in Azkaban. Has Voldemort been resurrected yet?"

"No."

"Is it easy to do, or can we stop them?"

"Hm. What if we could stop some methods but not others?"

"Do we have a preference? As to the methods?"

"Let's say we do. I don't want to make up explanations for those, though, to avoid spilling real-world secrets about other things I've got up my sleeve. Let's assume if we act reasonably intelligently, our Dark Lord would be stuck with his dispreferred method of coming to power, and require some time and trouble to match the abilities of past Dark Lords. Any Dark Lord would grow in power, of course, left unchecked."

"Right. Can he make himself invulnerable?"

"No Dark Lord has ever done that. Voldemort might believe himself to be immortal, but he is wrong. Most Dark Lords will lie about that fact until the end."

"How tough is he?"

"If it's a good day for me, I can drive him off, if we are going one on one."

"There's only one of you, and only one of him. Your value is really just as leaders and for difficult magical stuff. You're kings, not rooks. He exposes himself to being defeated every time he appears in public, so he's either got a reason to be brave, or he's nuts."

"Hm. Let's make this difficult and add some dark magic. Assume he can keep coming back, and stopping him from getting new bodies when one dies is very difficult, but not impossible. Nevertheless, most Dark Lords are very reckless, yes."

"What are his resources?"

"The Death Eaters I mentioned, and a steady stream of new recruits if he tries. A lot of money. The Ministry if he can take it over. Various Dark creatures, if we let him convince them. People under the imperius curse. Inferi."

Ron sat for a full minute this time, after giving a 'let me think' gesture.

"Can we win a fight against all the Death Eaters at once, if we can catch them?"

"If the ones in Azkaban stay there, right now, yes. But let's assume it won't stay that way for long if they decide try to take over the country again."

"So we'd lose, as things stand. We'd need more people. Ones who can fight. There must be good people who would fight if they were good enough to have a chance of winning. You're the headmaster of Hogwarts, so if _you_ weren't doing everything you could to identify the good guys and teach them to fight—no messing around, 'she's too young, blah blah' or only picking a few people—if you weren't doing that, I'd say you didn't think a war was coming. But you _could_ do that, if you needed to. I mean, you convinced mum to let you keep talking!

We'd also need ways to find the Death Eaters, wherever they are, to find them when they move, so we can react right away when they attack. Some Death Eater leaves their hideout's wards with a Dark Mark on their arm, or whatever, we want to know where they are at all times and be able to kill or capture them on the spot. Don't give them a chance to impress recruits, don't let them scare people. That would be the next thing I would pour resources into, even if I didn't think it was possible yet."

"I notice you have said nothing about wards at all."

"Sure, put 'em up. If I were you I would have just done it when mum wasn't looking and hidden them."

"Ron!"

"Hey, don't look at me! This is between you two. But Bill says wards just buy you time. I'd use the Fidelius on everything I cared about if I were worried. Make stuff unplottable if you can. Much harder to break wards you can't find. The only wards you want the enemy to find are the ones that set off your ambush."

"And the ones I am proposing here?"

"I guess they're like a lock on the door. Crazy not to have it, of course."

"Luna certainly seems to think so."

"She's right."

"Well, Molly, there you go! The wards are a minor precaution. Thank you Ron, Luna, I think that's enough for today." To Molly's relief, he at last shooed them outside. "There. Fascinating children. You and Arthur are very, very fortunate . . . Ah, well. I think I will not push the issue further today. I hope you found my little demonstration at least somewhat enlightening. I know I did."

With little further ado, and without giving Mrs. Weasley any further opportunities to fuss at him, Dumbledore said his goodbyes and flooed back to Hogwarts.

 

* * *

 

After coming in from the cold, Fred and George returned to their room to get changed for Christmas dinner. There was a small pile of packages on their desk.

 

"What have we here?" asked George, shutting the door behind them.

"A lot of people wanted to give us things without anyone else finding out?"

"Looks like it was specifically mum—this one's from Dumbledore. The card says 'Please don't let your mother know about this until I am safely out of the house. Merry Christmas, Albus Dumbledore'."

"He left half an hour ago, so I guess he's safe enough. What is it?"

George tore it open. It was an inch-thick muggle book on juggling. They read the inscription together:

 

 _For Fred and George Weasley, Christmas 1990._

 _I have found a second set of exercises for you! I think you will find that mastering the techniques in this book will go a long ways towards improving your spellwork. You ought to be able to transfigure all of the equipment called for in it. Please do stop into my office periodically to share your progress!_

 _I normally do not give presents to students, but occasionally I make exceptions. I expect you to be considerate of other students and use discretion when discussing this._

 _Albus Dumbledore_

 

"Dad will be thrilled! I wonder what he thinks mum's problem will be?"

"No idea—maybe he expects us to break things?"

"Or just scare her. So what are all the rest of these, and how did everyone get into our room today without us noticing?"

 

The rest of the gifts turned out also to be books. There were a lot of them. These included books on occlumency (Tonks—somewhat mysterious, since they didn't really know her), wilderness survival (Charlie), and wards (Bill). Sirius had sent a half dozen more that he considered critical pranking skills, plus a guide to magical home repairs and yet another muggle one on bells and change ringing. It was still an impressive pile with all the wrapping paper (now concealed under Fred's bed) off.

 

"I suppose we should hide the others, and take the one from Dumbledore downstairs to show dad."

"Oh," said George, flipping through it, "I think we should definitely make some of these club things first and go down there with them."

"Here, uh, let's see if we can make them out of these balls?"

"Looks good to me."

"Me too."

"Now what are we supposed to do with it?"

"Throw it at each other, apparently."

"Let me see that. Huh. Huh. Okayyy. Oh yes, Dad will love this."

 

They tried passing the club and found it to be harder to catch than it looked.

 

"Maybe we should start with the balls."

"Less dangerous."

"We don't want Dumbledore getting _too_ many howlers from mum."

"Wait, he's gotten them from her before?"

"Didn't he get one after that time with Charlie and the Ukrainian water gryphon that Kettleburn said was tame?"

"Oh, right! And that python thing, and the plague eel . . ."

". . . and, what was it, the venom-spitting desert eagle?"

"Yeah. And the hippogriff—"

"—no, that one was Hagrid, not Kettleburn."

"Dumbledore still got the howler, though, right?"

"Oh. Right."

"So, no throwing things at dinner, then."

"Sad."

"Most definitely."


	38. Christmas: Oren, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas with the Waylands -- a look at Oren's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.
> 
> Author's note: Yes, I have been changing the age of Oren's little sister over and over. Just assume I can't make up my mind, go with my most recent assertion, and remember that Rowling herself was awful about dates.

Chapter 38: Christmas, Oren, Part 1

 

Thursday, December 20th, 1990

 

Sarepta Wayland was thrilled to have her brother back home. The house was considerably more boring when he wasn't around for her to pester.

This was his first full day home, and after breakfast he had disappeared into the library. She had followed along behind, trying her best to sneak up behind him. Her sneaking technique was so far reliable for catching insects in jars and getting her mother to scream at her. It was not reliable for sneaking up on rabbits, post owls, her father, or her brother. This morning's effort was not an exception.

"Hi Sarepta." He turned around, grinning, and she came and stood next to him, where she could best interfere with whatever he was doing.

"No fair! You never let me sneak up on you!"

"You're just going to jump on me and shriek."

"But it's fun!"

"Sure, but it's like me tickling you—you giggle, but you still try to get away." She looked briefly put out by this. "Look, when you learn to actually stay quiet, you'll be able to jump on me and shriek all you like without me noticing you first. I'm not going to fake it for you!"

"But you and father are _really_ good! As soon as I get my wand I am going to learn a spell to make my shoes stop making noise."

"You don't need a wand for that. You can do it with a single rune on the bottom of your shoes."

"I can?"

"Well, not without learning to inscribe the rune. It's not the easiest one to start with. And ideally you'd want to do something to keep it from wearing off, and really wand magic is best for that."

"Oh. Could you do it for me?"

"I'm not going to just _give_ you the ability to sneak up on me. Learn to do it yourself."

"But I'm only nine! And seven months! So you should do it for me."

"Nope. Tell you what—I'll try to teach you. But _only_ if you agree to do all the exercises I give you. I don't want you giving up halfway after I've put in a lot of effort. How does that sound?"

"What kind of homework are you going to give me?"

"Smart girl. Only stuff I think you need in order to get good enough to do the silencing rune. I promise never to give you busy work. I mean, I might sometimes do it to keep you busy, but busy actually getting better, not busy wasting time."

"How long will it take?"

"To get to the silencing rune? Let me think . . . Actually, tell you what. Let's start you on a very basic rune first, just to see how long it takes you to learn that. Then we can guess at how long it will take to do the rest, and you can decide if you're still interested. Okay?"

Sarepta couldn't come up with any potential pitfalls. "Okay!"

"Great. Let's go down to the basement and find some things for you."

 

* * *

 

The Waylands did not have a house elf. This was not due to lack of ability to pay for one. Mostly they just wouldn't have enough work they would be willing to let it do, and the poor thing would go insane. Sure, their mother would be happy to let it do the cooking, but would insist on supervising everything, and would never let it do as much as rearrange the pots and pans.

Here in the basement, an enthusiastic house elf could find years of interesting and satisfying things to do, most of which would result in no one in the family being able to find anything down here ever again.

Right now Oren and Sarepta were staring into a cabinet full of quills, quill holders, ink bottles, dried up and empty ink bottles, the components of ink, some unlabeled jars that might also be related to ink, and a lot of dust. This cabinet had two shelves, each about the right size to hide Sarepta in if they were cleared. It was at about eye-level for an adult. It rested on a similar cabinet below it, and had some unknown, unreachable, and probably dusty stuff in boxes balanced on the top.

The entire length of the wall of this workroom—about sixty feet—was lined with cabinets and drawers of varying ages, designs, and accessibility. Some of them could only be reached after moving large piles of boxes, other furniture, or in one case an upright piano and a taxidermied goat. The other walls were similar, except that there was a lot of open shelving on them. Five or six tables and two old dressers had been lined up down the middle of the room. The family called it the "workroom" but very little work ever got done in it, because there was no space left on the tables to do anything. Effectively, it had been storage for the past fifty years.

It would be wrong to say that it was storing junk. The vast majority of things in the room were very useful, if you knew what they were, how they worked, and happened to remember them when the circumstances arose for which they were designed. Oren actually knew where most things were, although he hadn't at this age the first time around. That didn't mean, necessarily, that if a book were falling apart he would go use his great-great-grandmother's bookbinding equipment, his great uncle's collection of mysterious leather samples, or his great aunt's library paste. He had at one point made sure he knew _how_ to use those things. It's just that by the time he remembered them, he usually would have solved his problem some other way.

For all that most of what was down here got overlooked or forgotten most of the time, the Waylands _did_ use it regularly enough, as Oren and his sister were now doing.

"What I want," explained Oren, as he stared more or less blankly into a box of quills, "is one quill that's magically neutral, and one that's designed for magical inscriptions. I'm pretty sure there are lots of different types of quills here." He rooted around, eventually deciding he'd have to take the whole box upstairs. "It would be nice if any of them were labeled."

Sarepta did, in fact, already have a desk in her room, complete with her own ink, quills, paper, and blotter. What Oren wanted, though, was for her to practice using a quill that magic could not flow through, and to actually inscribe runes using one optimised for that; everything in her room was sort of middle-of-the-road, magically speaking. Most wizards couldn't be bothered with worrying about stuff like this; Oren was grateful to whichever ancestors had shared his sensibilities, and had cared enough to buy or make the various quills in the basement.

About 45 minutes, eight cabinets, six drawers, and three rooms later, Oren had gathered an acceptable type of ink, a pair of quills, a carving stylus, and a pile of paper. Sarepta could use these until she found something better, or, more likely, until she received three sets of duplicates the first Christmas after their relatives noticed her showing any interest in the subject.

"Still interested after all that?" They were back in her room, with everything set up on her desk. She nodded. "Okay—have a seat. I want you to start with the neutral pen—this one—and copy this rune. You need to make the strokes in the same order I did—one, two, three . . ." He traced it with his finger, then wrote it out a second time. "Let's see how you do."

"What does it do?"

"Well, if you do it right, with the other quill, it will just glow. That all it does. It's a good one to start with because you can tell if you get it right."

"Can you show me?"

"Nope! It will be more exciting if you do it yourself. But don't worry about the magic quite yet. Um, you need that downstroke to be longer, and that bit there is supposed to be a circle. Make it rounder. Good!"

After a few attempts, she had copied it to his satisfaction. Back in the original timeline, Sarepta's penmanship had been excellent, and was far better than his up until his first year of design school. She was quite good now, which was a relief to Oren, since he was using her handwriting as a sort of neatness threshold beyond which he would not venture for fear of blowing his cover.

"Alright. So that rune is itself a magical symbol. It's like casting a charm, although the underage magic detectors won't pick it up even outside of our wards. You are sending your magic through the quill or stylus just like you would a wand or staff or other focus. In this case you want to do it while intending for the rune to glow—that's the best I can describe it. If you do it right, you'll be able to feel your magic moving, and the rune will start to glow a few seconds after you finish with it. Okay, now. Try it."

Sarepta switched to the other quill, and with enormous determination, very, very slowly copied out the strokes of the rune, willing it to glow. She had some idea what magic felt like, having waved her mother's wand around once and caused a window to explode outwards. She thought she could feel something more controlled than that flowing through her hand, but she was so excited that it was nearly impossible to tell.

She lifted her quill and held her breath. One second. Two.

There was a faint lightening, as if the still-wet ink were shining a little more, and then suddenly it glowed like a candle. Gradually it brightened, until it rivaled the ceiling lamp.

Sarepta stared at it with wide eyes, then had to look away. "Wow."

"Nice job. Seriously, nice job." Oren leaned in and gave his sister a hug. He hadn't been all that physically affectionate the first time around. He was going to try to change that. He had also not tried to teach his sister anything; that was going to change too.

"Is it supposed to be that bright? Was that good?"

"No, and yes. You put a lot of magic into it. You looked like you were concentrating really hard, so whatever it was you did, remember that." He grinned. "Try it again with your regular quill, so you can see what the difference is."

This turned out to be possible, but annoying. The resulting rune glowed, but only like a candle. "I like the other quill better."

"Never underestimate the basement. More importantly, don't underestimate yourself. You know, I'm really sorry I never thought to try to teach you anything earlier. I apologize for that."

"That's okay. You'll just have to make it up to me!"

"You have absolutely no shame, do you." He shook his head, laughing. "I'll certainly try. Ready to try something else?"

"Okay!"

"Great. This next thing I want you to work on is a lot more complicated, but I want to jump ahead to something more difficult to get a sense of what you can do. Okay?" Using the neutral quill, Oren drew what looked like a square grid with leaves around it. "That center bit has to be precise—notice how some of those lines are shorter than the others, and three of them actually have gaps in them? This one is tricky. I'm going to break this down into several groups of strokes, and have you master it up to that point."

"What does this one do?"

"I'm not going to tell you, because I'm curious to see what happens if I don't."

"Okayyyyy."

It was almost an hour later when Oren let her try the other quill again. Some of that hour included two trips to the kitchen to steal Christmas cookies, but it _felt_ like a long time.

Oren handed her a blank sheet of paper, and she started in, carefully doing all thirty-two strokes, pushing her magic into it without any specific purpose. When she was done, nothing happened.

"Oh. Maybe you should tell me what it does, and I'll try again?"

"Not yet. Most runes don't do anything flashy—the glowing one is unusual, which is why I started with it. Could you feel your magic going into it?"

"Yeah."

"Interesting." He picked up the piece of paper and shook it, then grinned, broadly. "Notice that?"

"What?"

"Here, let's try another sheet of paper." He picked up one of her practice sheets, shaking it. It rustled. He switched back and shook the other, which didn't. "Here—try it yourself!"

"Is this the silencing one?"

"It is. My end of the bargain is done. You did it. Once again, very nice job. I suggest starting with slippers."

She ran around the room, finally pulling an old pair out from under her bed. "Will these do?"

"So long as you can write on their soles with that pen, yes. If you get it to work, I'll cast the spells to make it last longer."

In another fifteen minutes, Sarepta had two pairs of completely silent slippers, with no visible signs of enchantment. Oren had cast a long sequence of spells on them; somewhere in the middle, the ink had vanished.

"There you go! Your second and third magical items. Well, second through fifth, I guess, since they're in pairs."

"Can I wear these outside?"

"I wouldn't do anything with them that you wouldn't do with non-magical ones. Not because the enchantment will wear off, but because they're still just slippers. If you step in a puddle, your feet get wet. Stuff like that. It's not like you don't have other shoes."

"Will it work on the others?"

"Not the ones with rubber soles, no, since the ink won't stick. I'd use the stylus for those. You should practice on something else first, though."

That 'something else' turned out to be lunch. So far as Oren knew, it was safe to use the glowing rune on food, and he watched in fascination as his sister made glowing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and glowing cookies.

It was, in fact, possible to etch a rune into even a very crumbly cookie if you were careful enough.

It stopped glowing once you bit into it, but Sarepta rapidly mastered the art of casting really bright runes, then putting the entire cookie into her mouth so that it glowed through her cheeks. Oren had to admit this was an application of the rune that he hadn't seen before.

After the creation of an entirely silent bock of cheese (they had great difficulty explaining this to their mother later), Sarepta found a relatively flat-soled pair of sneakers and successfully carved the silencing rune into each.

"Nice. How about if I go back to the library, and you wait a few minutes and try to sneak up on me again?"

"Okay!"

This led to a fairly nerve-wracking two minutes, during which Oren wasn't able to concentrate on anything.

"Now I can hear you breathing."

"Orennnn!"

"Well, I can. But if I weren't listening for it, maybe I wouldn't have noticed."

"You weren't supposed to be paying attention!"

"I can't exactly _not_ think about it—you only took two minutes to try again."

"Hmph. What are you reading?"

"You mean, what was I trying to read, but couldn't because you keep pestering me?"

"Yeah." He made a mental note of his place and handed her the book.

"Manual of Mind Magics, Third Edition, Revised, Volume One. Why are you reading this?"

"A whole bunch of reasons. Mostly to see if there are good ways to help someone resist the stuff the book talks about."

"This is lots of potions. Ooh! Love potions—is there some girl who's trying to get you?"

"I don't think so. At least, not me. But a lot of the girls in Slytherin have been talking about them lately. Really, this is just the first volume, and I'm not sure it's any use to me." He pointed at the two other books from the set.

"So what are you really trying to do?"

"Like I said, a bunch of things, some of which are easier to explain than others. You have so far permitted me a whole four minutes with this book, half of which was spent listening for you creeping up on me, so I don't know what's in it yet. Let's see . . . This one seems to be truth serums, love and hate potions, various other potions and antidotes, mood-affecting charms . . . let's see what the others have . . . the imperius curse, compulsion, confusion, repelling, notice-me-not, geases, oaths, and contracts—interesting but not what I wanted, come back to that later . . . here we go! Legilimency and occlumency, memory charms, pensieves, magical dissociation? Some other stuff I don't recognize.

So, legilimency is the use of a spell to read minds. Very intrusive. Headmaster Dumbledore does it all the time, and I wish he wouldn't. Occlumency is the opposite—techniques for resisting it. There are a half dozen books on each of these things in here, by the way—mostly over there, where that gap is now. I wanted to look at the overview to see if there was anything I was missing."

"Was there?"

"I don't know yet! Probably. I've never heard of anything in the last half of this book."

"Can I see?"

"Oh, sure, why not. Tell you what. Want to help?"

"Okay!" The alternative was being _bored_ , and if Oren thought it was interesting, it probably was. At least, bugging him had paid off really well so far today.

"Great. Thanks, actually. Go through there and see if there's anything that looks like a way to block legilimency without spending a year learning to do it the hard way."

"Are you sure it would take a whole year?"

"That's the average, I think. Father will probably make you take a course on it eventually, if you don't pick it up on your own. Um, picking it up on your own is really, really hard. I've done a lot of the exercises, but I'm scared to ask for a tutor because I don't like the idea of someone reading my mind."

She laughed. "So you're looking for something like a magic hat, right?"

"More or less."

"Could you make magic earrings?"

Oren stopped and thought for a moment. "Maybe! That might be a pretty good idea. If I ever understand what I'm doing here, I might try that, if you have some we can experiment with."

"I have lots of earrings!"

"The problem is getting either a charm or runes on them. We'd have to write really small with runes. You can do it, but it's tricky. Anyway, go look through that book and tell me if you find anything interesting."

The legilimency and occlumency sections looked interesting, but they were all about the same things. Sarepta _was_ able to skim a book effectively. You couldn't grow up in this family otherwise.

The chapter on magical dissociation was pretty unpleasant. "Ewwww!"

"What is it?"

"There's a way to split someone's mind in half—magically, I mean, not with a knife—but you have to do gross things to them."

"What kind of things?"

"Go see for yourself."

Apparently wizards knew how to take advantage of the mind's natural ability to dissociate in response to traumatic situations. If you used the right rituals, and provided the right kinds of trauma, you could control the process fairly precisely. Doing it without the trauma was much harder—human minds don't like to split apart if they don't have to.

It was mostly useful for hiding things from the victim, and not really something you would want done to yourself if you could help it. The Manual of Mind Magics wasn't exactly the Dark Arts, but it was certainly grey enough to teach you both sides of every process. In any event, there were rituals for undoing the dissociation ritual. Difficult ones, definitely, but presumably effective.

"The rest of this is about possession by spirits. Do you care about that stuff?"

"Sure. It might work like occlumency. The fact that it's even in there is a good sign."

The possession section was broken into three chapters. The first was a short review of stories from mythology. At least in the classical mythology most wizards read in primary school, messing around with gods tended to get you raped by swans or turned into a tree or something, and was regarded as, overall, a Very Bad Idea. A "god", to a wizard, simply meant anything immensely more powerful than wizards; complicated theology was nowhere to be found.

As to possession by them, most cultures seemed to believe that if a god wanted to take over your mind or body, there wasn't anything you could do about it. Although western wizards considered this idea distinctly unappealing, the manual dutifully reported that a variety of foreign wizards claimed to contact gods directly, actually seeking out divine possession on purpose. The manual took this to be on the religious end of things, and fell back onto the common wizarding approach to religion—amiable, respectful skepticism coupled with spectacularly lousy fact-checking.

The second section on possession covered spirits of the dead (ghosts), or of the living doing some sort of projection. It included a sizable digression on the making of magical portraits, but the primary content on ghosts was intriguing, if sparse on details. There were quite a few leads here for Oren to research elsewhere.

The third involved more generic "spirits". The most powerful and complex of these sounded a lot more like Peeves than something out of stories, like Shakespeare's Ariel. The book was not so concerned with making them come and go as it was with getting them into your head and out again, and what they could do while they were there. Generally speaking, possession didn't leave the host body with any magical powers it didn't have before, so the experience wasn't one sensible wizards were expected to seek out. The book politely overlooked the fact that sensibility was not exactly a common trait among wizards.

In fact, most respectable pureblood libraries contained several books on the summoning of spirits. Never mind that this was normally useless, or that the only spirit most of them had any experience with was Peeves. Purebloods just liked thinking of themselves as the sort of people who would summon spirits, just as something to do on a slow Sunday afternoon when they were bored. And so occasionally they would pick up books on the subject, which would make a nice conversation piece until somebody decided to go on a de-cluttering spree and relegate them to gathering dust in the library.

The Wayland family was not an exception to this tendency among purebloods, nor were they exceptions to the tendency to have very few children to divide inheritances between, or the tendency to never, ever throw anything out if it seemed like it might be useful someday. So Oren and Sarepta found a solid thirty books on spirits right off the bat, and those were just the ones that had been shelved correctly in the library. These ranged from genuine medieval tomes with crumbling bindings, beautifully illustrated but useless coffee-table books, various books and pamphlets in languages no Wayland had ever bothered to learn, comprehensive and boring manuals for the genuine "enthusiast", reproductions of genuine medieval tomes, modern forgeries passed off as reproductions of genuine medieval tomes, books bound in expensive leather and sold to people who were not expected to ever open them, four identical copies of a former Hogwarts textbook, and two quasi-autobiographical novels by Gilderoy Lockhart.

Those, it bears repeating, were just the ones shelved correctly in the library, where "correctly" meant "somewhere more or less all near each other". There was no shortage of other bookcases around the house, all of which were full, and no one ever felt the need to reorganize everything further so certain topics were all in the same room. That would be silly, because the way things were shelved now was the product of how generations of real people had used real books and bookcases. Real people using real books also tended to create little piles "to be read later", "to be shelved later", or "to be left out so that the relative who gave it to us can see it when they come over"; those piles were easily abandoned and forgotten, which was the primary way for books to wind up "lost".

"Lost" was actually a pretty useful category, because it meant you remembered a book existed and knew it was worth bothering to look for. Of course, in absolute numbers, "lost books" just didn't compare to the much larger category of "books Oren and Sarepta didn't know about", which in turn overlapped with their parents' own gaps in knowledge to form the category of "books no one in the Wayland family actually knew they had." It was pretty easy for books—or anything, really—to wind up in that category, even in the main parts of the house. All it took was for a room, or part of one, to get heavily used by one family member for a few decades until all sorts of things had been dragged in there and put into their own idiosyncratic order; once that person died, no one would bother moving anything unless they knew it existed and had a use for it, or they actually needed the space for some reason. Certainly there were differences in scale, but the same principle that applied to the specialized potions references in their great-grandfather's basement laboratory applied equally well to their grandmother's cookbooks tucked into the corner of the pantry.

And all of that ignored the books that were stored in boxes, crates, chests, and trunks. When you had an attic with six rooms and an extension charm, and two more basement floors of the same size, you could _just put stuff there_. When great aunt Nerodia had died without children, Oren's grandfather had just had the movers put everything in crates and stick it in the attic. Oren's father had lived abroad for several years, and upon returning had never really unpacked—if he needed something he acquired during that time, which he never did, he could just go to the attic, root around, and find it. And in the first timeline, when Oren had graduated from Hogwarts, he had never fully unpacked his trunk; it had joined seven others in the attic.

In this filing and storage system, pulling everything off the shelf and calling it a day was usually good enough—either you knew where something was and could find it relatively quickly, either in the library or one of a few dozen other likely hiding places, or else you didn't know it existed in the first place and were unlikely to discover it on purpose. By the time their father came home at 5, they had bookmarked a handful of potentially useful things and carefully put the books back on the shelf where they would not arouse suspicion.

"Come on. You should go show father the runes."

 

* * *

 

"Father! Father! Come into the kitchen and let me show you something!"

"Okay, okay. Let me get my cloak off."

Malaxis followed his daughter into the kitchen, and watched in puzzlement as she took a cookie from the tin. "You know, you two, I can tell there's only about half the cookies left since the last time I looked, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't me or your mother eating them. Leave some for the rest of us, okay?" Wizards weren't really solid on the idea of a healthy diet, but mostly they agreed that there _was_ such a thing as too many cookies.

"But watch! Watch!" Sarepta put the cookie right on the counter, pulled her stylus out of her pocket, and started drawing on it with an intense look of concentration. A few seconds after she finished, it glowed very brightly. Malaxis had learned to wait a little bit before showing surprise to his children. This was the correct move on his part, because she didn't turn her attention back to him with her triumphant "look at me!" expression until after carefully closing her mouth with the entire cookie inside, making her cheeks glow red.

"I see."

"She was pestering me, so I showed her how to write runes, since she wouldn't need a wand for it. I didn't know if she could do it, so I started with the glowing rune, since it's simple and you can tell right away if you got it right. She's really good at it! Um, the thing with the cookies was _not_ my idea."

Malaxis just stood there, smiling, not sure what to say. Something was weird about the situation beyond his daughter's precociousness.

He realized after a moment that the weird thing was that Sarepta was not actually talking, because her mouth was full.

"You know, I think you were really small the last time you tried to get my attention by putting something odd in your mouth. At least now you're doing it with actual food, and I don't have to leap at you in a panic to stop you from swallowing. Good show!"

Oren had gotten the rune-inscribed cheese out of the icebox.

"So I only taught her two. This is the other one." He pointed to the rune, then pointedly dropped the cheese onto the counter from a foot and a half up.

"A silencing rune?"

"Yeah. It's on her shoes, too, so you have to listen for her rustling or breathing when she sneaks up on you now."

"Thanks a lot."

"Well, she kept pestering me, and I wanted to see if she could do it."

"Oren . . . that's not really the best reason to teach her something, you know. It could apply equally well to . . . all sorts of things."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess so."

Malaxis watched his son put the cheese back. His wife would no doubt find it distinctly unsettling and demand an explanation; _he_ knew better than to ask why the cheese needed to be silenced.

"Sarepta, I'm very impressed. Are you going to eat that cookie?"

"Mmrph mrph."

 

* * *

 

Malaxis had come to sit by the fire with his wife, Alya. "I just spent the past two hours talking to Oren and Sarepta."

"I'm sure they appreciated that. I heard you in there testing Oren on what he learned at Hogwarts. How's he doing?"

"You know, we really ought to pay more attention to Sarepta, too."

Alya looked thoughtful. "I think we give her plenty, really. She's just so exhausting sometimes. Oren was so much less demanding."

"I worry that we aren't really giving her a chance. Or at least, the right ones. Oren was able to teach her those runes in just a few hours, and he said she got them on the first try once she mastered the calligraphy. I don't think I could have done that."

"Did you ever try?"

"No—Oren's confident we all could have done it at her age, although he says it helps that she has good handwriting. He says he was able to do it then, too, although I honestly don't remember when he started playing with runes."

"Well, maybe it will keep her out of trouble."

Malaxis snorted. "If only. I asked Oren why he taught her, and he said, I quote, 'because she was bugging me and I wanted to see if she could do it.'"

"That sounds reasonable enough."

"This is a girl who thinks the natural use for a rune that glows is to put it on food and eat it."

"Right. I wish she hadn't done that, even if it is safe. It's not a good habit."

"What, eating your experiments? I think so long as they remember decent safety practices, they'll be okay."

"You mean so long as Oren does."

"I think you're being too hard on Sarepta. 'Creative' isn't always dangerous. I think it will only get dangerous if we don't pay attention to her, and the next thing Oren teaches her 'to see if she can do it' is the reductor curse or something. She only gets in trouble if she feels ignored or bored."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. I hope that doesn't mean I'm ignoring or boring her."

"We probably both are, some of the time. It's not really avoidable, although honestly it would help if you would spend more time at home." This was a sore point, but by mutual agreement it was only ever mentioned in passing.

"I suppose."

"So should we get her a wand for Christmas, like she asked? I'm sure Ollivander's will be open this weekend . . ."

"Would that work? I mean, wouldn't she just blow things up or get frustrated, at her age?"

"Within two hours of learning her first magic, she created more functional magic items than I did my whole first three years at Hogwarts." He paused, realizing something. "Even if you don't count the ones she ate. I think Oren has the right idea, when he says he has no idea what she can do."

"Well, let's take her in and see what Ollivander has to say. How is Oren doing?"

"Like his sister, impressive. He doesn't have all that much power—I asked him to transfigure a five-inch wide paperweight, and he could only get it to something about twice that diameter. But he didn't have any trouble when I asked him to turn it into a hedgehog, which was the most complicated thing I could think of off the top of my head.

Same with charms—as long as it requires finesse but not power, he's fine. I started pushing him on charms, you know, going up a few years in the curriculum, and the only reason I stopped was that he looked so embarrassed. I think he wants us to be proud of him, but not overly impressed, which I suppose is fair. Of course that just means we have to be sneaky to avoid embarrassing him."

"Oh? How?"

"Maybe you could see how he does with some cleaning charms? Some of those can get trickier than people realize, but that can get overlooked because they are 'household charms'."

"Well, I won't let him at anything breakable. I'll try to come up with something."

"I'm pretty sure Oren wouldn't try a charm if he thought he'd break something. He's far too conservative. Sarepta, now, we'll have to be careful with."

"I suppose. Did you try anything else?"

"I gave him some puzzles and let him solve them with runes if he liked, since he's apparently been practicing them for longer. If you give him a problem he has to think about, he'll get distracted and stop worrying about whether you'll think he's showing off."

"Puzzles?"

"I put a ward on the paperweight and asked if he could break it. He used some inscriptions to store power until he could overload the ward, then grabbed the paperweight. It looked surprisingly simple when he did it, but I have no idea where he got it from.

Then I had him try to make it so _I_ couldn't get at it. Okay, he says. So he takes a pad of paper from the shelf and started scribbling things, then asks met to leave the room when I tried to look over his shoulder. Fine, fine. He calls me back in, twenty minutes later, and the paperweight is nowhere to be seen, he's grinning, and Sarepta is giggling at me.

I ask him where it is, and he says he hid it, which made it so I couldn't get at it until I found it. It took me almost an hour before I simply gave up—I was stubborn! Turns out, he spent over half the time teaching Sarepta a notice-me-not rune, handed her a piece of chalk, and told her to put it everywhere she could think of."

"I hope she didn't put it on anything too hard to clean . . ."

"Chalk's easy to clean up, although I had to ask Sarepta to point out the runes she put on anything I might need to find later. I'm impressed he had the chalk in his pocket in the first place. So I try a general detection charm, which fails, as I expected. I start on my desk, and find the fields from three of the runes there, and manage to clean them all up, but no paperweight. I try a shelf, same thing.

I have to hand it to her, she's creative and fast. Afterwards Oren said he did it so she wouldn't give away the location by looking at it, which is just brilliant. So it turns out he spent almost all of _his_ remaining time putting bigger notice-me-not runes on the ceiling so that I would detect the magic there and get distracted. It took me ten minutes to get through each of two corners, at which point I conceded defeat. So where do you think it was?"

"In his pocket?"

"No."

"Not in the room at all?"

"No, it was in the room. It wasn't transfigured, or put inside of anything."

"Let me guess, it was just an ordinary job of hiding it?"

"Except for the bit to foil my detection charm, yes. He stuck it to the underside of my desk, drew an anti-detection inscription around it, and left it there. No wards, no invisibility, none of Sarepta's notice-me-not runes. If I had thought to look there, I would have seen it, no problem. So the whole thing required two different runes and a sticking charm, and Sarepta did most of the work. Cleverness and attitude beats power and experience, apparently."

"Sounds like you better be more specific in your puzzles from now on."

"Definitely. I sent them to bed after that."


	39. Christmas, Oren, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 39: Christmas, Oren, Part 2

 

Friday, December 21, 1990.

 

Malaxis Wayland had set aside today to take his children Christmas shopping. He loved Alya, and she meant well, but she was not the right parent for the job in this case. To be honest, she was usually not the right parent for the job, but everyone in the family sort of accepted this gracefully, and on the whole things went much better than if she had Tried Very Hard and made everyone miserable.

"That's Harry Potter, isn't it?" Sarepta was pointing at the rather odd group—a small boy in a big hat holding the hand of a man in shabby clothes, a girl with pink hair, Hagrid the half-giant, and Sirius Black.

"With a crowd like that, I'd sure hope so. It would be rather a let-down otherwise."

"Can we follow them?"

"I imagine the adults are all there to watch out for people trying to follow them."

"Does that mean we can't?"

"Of course not! It means we look in windows along the way. _You_ can watch where they go—that will look normal enough. I'll pretend I'm not allowing you to chase after, and eventually give in. Got it?"

The two kids nodded. They were used to the idea of having their father strategically forbid them to do things; if they asserted to someone that their father had told them not to do something they didn't want to do, he would almost always back them up, however ridiculous. It could be very useful sometimes.

There was no real use in trying to get the kids themselves to act inconspicuous. It wasn't so much that either of them were particularly noisy, although Sarepta could be loud if she chose to be. The main reason was that Sarepta had insisted on getting a winter cloak that was blindingly _bright yellow_ , which made her very happy, but also made her easy to spot in a crowd.

Oren, like his parents, had a sort of dirty blonde hair. Sarepta's was much more yellow, or, if you asked her, golden. In any case she had decided at around the age of five that this was her color, and usually Malaxis and Alya found it simplest to just go along with their daughter on this point. Needless to say the cloak had been a custom order at Madam Malkin's (who had been thrilled), but they had gotten it a little large and with a hem that could be let out, so it would be good for the next few years at least.

"They went into Ollivander's! The big man stayed outside."

"That's Hagrid," explained Oren. "He's the gamekeeper at Hogwarts, which I think means he chases people away from the dangerous parts of the forest."

"Do you think Harry is getting a wand? He isn't at Hogwarts yet, is he? Why can't I get one?"

"Sarepta, how long have you been asking for a wand?"

"Since yesterday?"

"So, that was at dinner. A whole, fifteen, sixteen hours, most of which you spent asleep?"

"Yeah, Sarepta, and last night you were distracted. Although I seem to remember you did pretty well without one. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! You have to have a wand to do anything!"

"Anything?"

"You know what I mean!"

"So," asked their father, pretending to care about the contents of the Quality Quidditch Supplies display window, "are they still in there?"

"Yeah."

"Then they probably _are_ getting him a wand."

"So why can't I get one?" Oren was grinning at her. "Don't laugh at mee! You know I'll be really good once you get me the wand."

"She means good at magic, Father. But it was a nice try."

"Pbplth!"

"Pbbbbbbltht!"

"Come on you two, it's no fun stalking somebody if they don't do anything, and we have stuff to do."

"Can we go get my wand when they come out?"

"So you are assuming I'm going to get it for you today now, are you?"

"The only reason not to would be if you were mean."

"Maybe I'm worried you will break more windows."

"Oren can repair them."

"Just go ahead and volunteer me, riight."

"Well, you _can_."

"You've never seen me cast any sort of repair charm."

She shrugged. "You can learn it. Then you can teach it to me, and then nobody will have to worry if I make a mess or break things!"

"Sarepta, that's enough. Now, I never said I wouldn't get you a wand. I just don't want it distracting you the whole time we're shopping. So either we get it once Harry leaves Ollivander's, and you don't get to do anything with it until we get home, or you sit tight while we go shopping and we get it last. Which will lead to you paying the most attention?"

She stopped and thought about this. "We get it halfway through."

"Halfway through it is."

"Thank you!" she shouted, and hugged his leg.

"Come on, let's try to figure out what to get your mother."

 

* * *

 

Malaxis had carefully broken the day up in order to avoid pushing the limits of the kids' attention spans. Shopping, lunch, shopping, wand shop (ten inches, acacia and unicorn hair), ice cream, shopping and dinner in muggle London, then home. By the time they flooed back from the Leaky Cauldron, Sarepta was going nuts and even Oren looked weary, but it had been a pretty good day, and he had done everything he had set out to.

Sarepta dove for the wand box the moment they arrived home. "Outside!" he yelled. "I don't want you trying anything indoors until we've seen what happens. You _are_ younger than the usual wand-buyer, you know."

It was dark and cold out, but he didn't mind too much if Sarepta blew up the snow, and the weather was nothing a warming charm couldn't handle. It took him approximately twenty minutes to teach his daughter her first spell— _lumos_ —after which he pretended to be tired and turned to go inside. "Oren, you can cast the warming charm, right?" (It was definitely not a first-year spell, but if he pretended not to know . . .) Oren nodded. "Great. Your mother and I expect her to have mastered basic mending and cleaning charms by tomorrow morning. The door's unlocked, so we won't wait up for you . . . Um, that's a joke—you can come in whenever you want. Don't freeze!"

Once he had gone, turned to his sister, genuinely puzzled. "I'm not sure if father was joking or not. Could you tell?"

"No."

"Those are actually pretty simple spells, so he might really expect it to happen, because he assumes we're brilliant. Lots of first years get to school already knowing them."

"Well, how do you do them?"

It seemed like a pretty good place to start, joke or not.

 

* * *

 

Alya had relaxed into her usual seat by the fire, and was reading when Malaxis came in.

She didn't look up, but asked "How did it go?"

"She learned lumos. It's not very bright, but she got it. I have decided not to check whether that's a first-year spell. In fact, I suggest we both keep our noses out of textbooks for a while, since we'd just be pretending to know what was normal."

"Sounds good to me. I will be sure not to read any textbooks until you tell me otherwise."

He grinned.

"So what exactly are they up to now, out there? I haven't heard any explosions. Yet."

"With any luck, Oren is teaching her some cleaning and mending charms. I told them I expected her to master them by morning, then told them I was joking."

"Those are fairly simple."

"They might not realize that. Or they might not think we do. Either way, it seemed like it was worth a shot."

"I look forward to having them clean the kitchen for me tomorrow, then."

"I certainly wouldn't bet _against_ it."

 

* * *

 

Wednesday, December 26, 1990.

 

It was the morning after Christmas, and Sarepta was sitting on her bed, trying to use the hover charm on one of her socks. She was succeeding merely in dragging it across the blanket, not in the flinging-it-around-the-room of her imagination.

That was okay. It had been a great week. One of the best of her life, definitely. Oren and her parents had been constantly either giving her one-on-one instruction or having her help them with something genuinely interesting. Of course, cleaning the kitchen floor was genuinely interesting if you had just learned the cleaning charm.

The day after she had gotten her wand, her mother had, in fact, simply asked her to clean the kitchen the next day after breakfast. Neither of her parents had said _anything_ about her new wand at breakfast, and Oren and Sarepta certainly weren't going to be the ones to start—they were stubborn!

Of course, she had her wand with her at all times, so it wasn't like they didn't know. They just seemed much more interested in talking about boring newspaper articles than in paying attention to her.

So, when she had brought her plate out to the kitchen, Sarepta had no idea what to make of her mother asking—with a completely straight face—"Hey, Sarepta, the sink's kind of gross. Could you try to clean it?" Well, she wasn't going to let her mother win that one, and simply started right in, slowly making progress with repeated cleaning spells. Her mother watched over her shoulder, almost disinterestedly, as if to make sure no explosions were forthcoming, and went off into another room.

This was irritating, but she _was_ able to make progress, and eventually moved on to the counter, the floor, and any other surfaces she could think of. When she had finished, she dragged her mother back to the kitchen and insisted that she look.

Her mother peered down into the sink for a long time, as if examining each crevice, then ran her finger along it, and then did the same to the counters and floor. By the end the corners of her mouth were twitching, and Sarepta knew she had won (with her mother, this was a major victory!).

Finally she was rewarded with a warm, genuine smile. "Sarepta, this is a really good job. Thank you!" This was followed by a kiss to the forehead, then "did Oren teach you the dusting charm?"

The Waylands didn't _really_ have much of a gendered division of labor, but as with many things, they pretended to whenever it was convenient. That day it had been convenient for Sarepta's mother to spend the day with her, teaching her whatever household charms could be done with finesse alone (or at least with repetition). Sarepta was an excellent mimic, and could repeat an incantation correctly on the first try. She didn't learn which aspects of it were actually important this way, but she learned the spell, which was all she cared about for now.

Her mother had looked genuinely pleased with her the whole time, without once hiding behind her familiar awkwardness or sarcasm. It was one of the most normal interactions Sarepta had seen her mother have with anybody, actually. She had no idea what Oren was up to that day, nor did she care. The fact that it was like having class all day never occurred to her—if someone was paying attention to her, Sarepta was happy.

The next day her father had taken her and done the same—he tried teaching her a whole bunch of miscellaneous charms, and even took her outside and taught her _incendio_ and a simple stinging hex, with which she was able to leave scratches on an old log.

Christmas Eve and Christmas itself had resembled every other Christmas she remembered, except that this year she was being asked to do many more little tasks around the house, and she received a lot more books and other 'practical' presents. Oren had predicted that, actually, saying that as soon as she showed an interest in something, however small, adults would see it as an easy gift idea and leap all over it. The practical gifts were all _good_ ones, though.

So now she was sitting on her bed. It was morning, and she had already gone downstairs and eaten a bowl of cereal and some toast. Oren had not made an appearance so far as she could tell. Listening at his door revealed nothing. Maybe he had silencing charms up? She'd have to get him to teach her how to do those. But it was anyway totally normal for him to sleep in. It was just annoying, because her parents were busy and she had gotten used to the constant attention of the past few days.

Dragging the sock around was fun, even if she couldn't make it really fly. If she hadn't been using magic, it would have been the most pitiful excuse she had ever seen for playing with toys the day after Christmas—she giggled, thinking of herself playing with the sock by hand. Oren would think she had lost it. Actually, he probably wouldn't—he would just politely assume he was missing something, and would ask questions if he thought it might be important.

She heard the doorknob turn down the hall. She and her brother had bedrooms on the third floor, nominally because there was already a playroom up there (it had been more or less updated for the twentieth century, even), but in reality so that they would be further away from their parents. Wizards would use monitoring charms for really young children, but by the time their children were seven or so, wizards rarely shared muggles' enthusiasm for vigilant paranoia. At least among purebloods, peace, quiet, and not being bothered were valued much more highly. This, combined with British wizards' fondness for houses of three or more floors, left Oren and Sarepta with nice views of the yard and some decent privacy.

The third floor also contained two guest rooms (full of stuff), a room which had most recently been their mother's office, a large linen closet, and the bathroom the two of them shared. Oren's room was on the far side of the playroom. He had to pass her door to get to the bathroom, the old office, or the stairs. In short, he couldn't get anywhere interesting without her seeing.

When he came into view, his eyes were glowing, he was wearing only his pajama bottoms and had runes written all over his body, and he was lurching. Sarepta did not waste time. She did not pause to put her shoes on. She did not say anything. She sprung from the bed at full speed, passed around her brother as widely as she was able, and nearly fell down the stairs—down to the second floor, swinging around the newel post, and down to the first. She nearly knocked the coat rack over as she went headlong into the kitchen.

She skinned her knee diving to a halt in front of a cabinet, before yanking open the door and grabbing the biggest saucepan with a handle. Pots, pans, tins, and lids went clattering across the floor as she pulled it out without moving anything else first.

The sink was painfully, painfully slow, and her heart was racing. She was trying the first thing she thought of—there wasn't time to do anything else. She didn't know if it would work, if she would be fast enough, or what she would do if it failed. Aeons later the pan was as full as she could carry, and she moved to the bottom of the stairs just as Oren was shuffling down the last few steps. She was crouched down behind a shoe rack, but it didn't matter. He didn't react, even when, as he reached the bottom, she screamed and launched herself out from behind her hiding place to block his way.

She didn't trust that the water would go where she wanted it to on its own, and she might only have this one chance, especially if it drew his? its? attention to her at last. So she stayed in motion and ran at him, pushing the pot of cold water into his face at full speed. He fell backwards with her on top of him, his head cracked against the steps, water gushed everywhere, and the pot twisted out out of her grasp, clanging down the last two steps to the floor.

"YOU LET IT IN!!!" He wasn't reacting. His eyes were closed, not glowing through the lids. She banged her fists against his chest, crying inarticulately. Eventually she thought to check if he was breathing; he was. There was no blood anywhere, except her knee. That could wait.

"Oren!!! OREN!!!"

He opened his (now normal) eyes, looking at her, but not saying anything.

She scrambled for the pot and held it over her head. "Who are you?"

"Huh? It's me. Thanks. That didn't work so well. Sorry."

Good enough. "DON'T DO THAT! YOU SCARED ME! THAT WAS REALLY, REALLY SCARY! You summoned something and tried to hide it, and if you EVER do that I am going to keep hitting you with this pot. What if I hadn't been here?"

"Then I would have been in deep, deep trouble, and might not have survived. Ugh. I might throw up."

She offered him the pot, thinking 'I'm faster than you, I hit hard, and I fight dirty.' If it was really Oren, he didn't need the warning. He didn't try anything, but he did throw up in the pot.

"Can you clean all this up? I'm not sure I can."

"Yeah, if you get my wand. On my floor. Everything up there is safe now."

She ran upstairs, although not quite at top speed this time. Oren's door was open. There was a circle on the floor, big enough to sit or stand in, with complicated runes, some of them smudged. His wand was just lying there in it. She grabbed it, grabbed her own from her room, and barreled downstairs again, stopping only to avoid slipping on the water. She gingerly passed him his wand—she had to assume he was back to himself at this point.

Without moving his head, he dried up the water, healed her knee (which surprised her; she had never seen him do that), and scourgified the runes off his skin. "I'm okay for now, but I don't think I should move. Go back to my room and get me a pajama top, then clean the floor and put away the books. Put the pots back in the kitchen. You'll have to floo father when I'm done."

"Why shouldn't I floo him now?"

"Urgh. You know why—he'd worry."

"You'll do everything I say from now on."

"I'm pretty sure I already do everything you ask. Just go."

This was a fair and inconvenient point, and it gave her pause. Clearly she needed more interesting goals to bargain for the next time she got blackmail material on anyone. For now, she settled for "yeah, but you whine about it first and I have to bug you lots," and ran off.

When Oren's room was acceptable, the last traces of runes were gone from his skin, and she had very, very carefully helped him get his pajama top on, she went to finish putting the pots back in the kitchen. He said he'd try to come up with an explanation in the meantime. When she got back, his suggestion was one that just dug him in deeper.

"I don't normally just fall down the stairs. We'll have to say you tackled me, which is at least true, so we'll seem believable. Yes, I'll owe you—figure it out later. Go floo father."

 

* * *

 

Oren had avoided a concussion, but the healers weren't too happy about his neck. He was given some potions and told to wear a brace, and to come back in a week to see if it could come off. Other than a general instruction not to do anything stupid, he was free to do as he pleased.

As soon as their parents had said goodnight, Sarepta was up and over in his room, sitting cross-legged on the foot of his bed, her face illuminated with the dim blue of her _lumos_.

"What was it?"

"Some sort of air spirit, according to the book."

"What were you doing with it?"

"Testing whether that set of runes was enough to supplement my occlumency barriers, and whether that worked against possession, since if it did, we'd know they were analogous. I picked it because it seemed like a weak spirit."

"So it didn't work."

"No! It worked perfectly. It was completely unable to get into my mind."

"What . . . but it got your body?"

"Right. I hadn't thought of that part."

"So can you make me earrings, or a hat, or something now?"

"Maybe! I'll need to find a way to etch things really small, so we'll go digging around the basement tomorrow for ways to do that."

"Okay! But you still have to do everything I say."

Oren rolled his eyes. "How about you only bring that up if I actually say 'no' to something?"

"That's boring—I like reminding you."

"I got that impression."

"Anyway you don't get to try something like that without telling me first."

"Hm. See, it's not that I have anything I care about hiding from _you_. I just don't want anyone reading stuff out of your head. Does that make sense?"

"Sure. So you make me a bunch of jewelry."

"The jewelry or whatever is fine if nothing bad happens. It's not a perfect substitute for doing the exercises. There are some things I just won't tell you until I think you can at least push away a casual probe on your own."

"Who do you think is going to kidnap me?"

"No one, hopefully. Like, really, I have no idea. If Voldemort rose again he'd probably leave us alone, since it's convenient for him to have some casual, passive supporters. The Ministry has no reason to do anything unless they get tricked into believing something crazy. I'd guess Dumbledore's people are the biggest risk, really, and if he got ahold of you and took away whatever I gave you, there wouldn't be much you could do to stop him."

"Why would he want to kidnap me?"

"If he thought you had secrets he wanted."

"Do you have any?"

"Maybe? Depends on what he's up to. It's safest to assume the worst."

"Okay. How easy is it to tell the earrings are there?"

"I don't know? Presumably no one knows. I've never seen magic hats for sale that claim to block legilimency. Wizards normally respond to unwanted legilimency probes by just hexing each other, or going to court over it.

I guess if a wizard cares enough to want to actually _block_ legilimency, they just take the year and learn to block it with occlumency. They'd probably assume they had bigger problems if they got captured by someone really powerful, like Dumbledore or a Dark Lord, so it might not be worth the effort to do anything more."

"So maybe Dumbledore wouldn't be able to tell I was using jewelry."

"Maybe! That would be really convenient. You know, it's all well and good to tell me not to try anything dangerous without checking with you, but I'm going to be at Hogwarts most of the year. Just going to class is pretty dangerous sometimes! So you can't really hold me to that when I'm not home."

"Sure I can. Just write to me."

"That's slow, and what if someone catches the owl? There are spells to redirect mail, and Dumbledore has been known to search anything passing through the school."

She looked thoughtful. "Aren't there magic mirrors that can do that?"

"Yesss . . . that's a good idea, actually. I don't think we have any, though. We'd have to get father to buy them, since they cost more than I have lying around, and they aren't worth trying to make yourself." This was true—he had carved the frames for a set once, but farmed out the actual mirror part to someone else. You had to have the right glass and silvering, and cast the charms as you made it. They were expensive for a reason.

"We could say it was so you could teach me stuff while you were at school."

"Yeah, or have you go to the library for me. That could be really useful."

"Okay. Do other kids have them at Hogwarts?"

"A few, but it's strongly discouraged, because usually they get given by over-protective families. If you get caught with one, Dumbledore or your head of house will call your parents in and ask them a lot of uncomfortable questions implying they are abusing you, and then the teachers will watch you like a hawk for the rest of your time there. But I think if it were clear that _you_ were controlling the other mirror, that would be fine. At least, it would be, if _I_ were in Snape's position. We can have father write a note for me to keep around, just in case."

Their parents believed in preemptive note-writing to save themselves from needing to be contacted later. Over the years this had ranged from complicated "in case of emergency" instructions, to general-purpose permission slips ("If Oren is trying to buy something that costs less than a galleon, whatever it is, please just assume I'm okay with it. — Malaxis Wayland"), to pithy warnings for misguided do-gooders (taped inside Sarepta's lunch box: "If you make her eat it all, you'll be sorry! — Alya Wayland"). These had so far been effective on those few occasions they had truly been needed.

"We'll have father get us a mirror, then. If you make me earrings, how will you know if they work?"

"There are spells for sensing magical fields, but I guess the real test would be to try legilimency on you. I've never learned it, though, and you have to be really careful with it. Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, okay? Like I said, we still need to find a way to enchant your earrings in the first place."

"Okay. What are you going to teach me next?"

"Well, what do you want to be able to do?"

"I like making things." This was no surprise; Sarepta had wound up making and selling jewelry for a while in Oren's previous timeline.

"What would you like to make? Or have?"

"How do you make things bigger on the inside than the outside?"

"That's actually very hard. You'll either need to be much more powerful than you are now, or else have a few years of arithmancy before you'll be able to do it yourself. I don't think there are any shortcuts."

"Can you do it?"

"In theory, I think, maybe." He had added extension charms to furniture on numerous occasions—it was, in fact, work that required nitpicky precision, at least the way he insisted on doing it.

"So you do know. How did you make that paperweight bigger?"

"That was transfiguration, and I would really rather not be the one to teach it to you. It's easy to screw up and hurt yourself, and I'm not as good a teacher as Professor McGonagall."

"Oh." She was willing to accept that Oren had a good intuition for that sort of thing. "I don't know. Just pick something."

"How about you watch me fiddle with your jewelry, and see if you learn anything?"

"Okay. Are you going to try that possession thing again?"

"Maybe. If I come up with any good ideas, and you're up for throwing water on me again."

"It was kind of scary. Do you really have to?"

"It's a good way of testing things. I'd rather risk having some dumb air spirit read my thoughts, when it can't understand them anyway, than find out the hard way with Dumbledore or somebody."

"Can't you get somebody else to do it?"

"I don't know any legilimenses who I trust. Can we cross this bridge when we come to it, too?"

"I mean somebody else to get possessed, so that I don't have to tackle you while your neck's still hurt."

"Oh. Right. Darn. I forgot about that. I'm not keen on testing it on you, either. I'll think about it. Do you have any friends we could experiment on?"

"Couldn't you get Erwin or somebody to do it?"

"Maybe? I kind of wish we knew some Gryffindors, just to have someone who was reckless when we needed them."

Sarepta considered this for a moment. "Do you think I'll be in Slytherin?"

"My bet is on Ravenclaw, actually. If not that, then Slytherin. On the other hand, you _are_ pretty good at getting your way with people, so the sorting hat could really go either way. I don't know. You're not like Draco, going 'Oh, Malfoys are always in Slytherin, if I don't get in there my father will disown me and I'll have to live on the streets, drama, drama.'"

Sarepta was yawning, but the conversation was interesting, and she wasn't willing to give in and go to bed yet. "Would his father really do that?"

"Merlin, no. He loves his son. Draco's just crazy because his mother's side of the family really _is_ like that, and she's kind of neurotic. The Blacks are all crazy. Real people aren't like that."

"What about Sirius Black?"

"He got into Gryffindor, right? That's where the sorting hat puts you if you're nuts and don't fit anywhere else."

"That could be kind of fun, though, right?"

"For them, sure, I guess. They all seem happy enough together, so I suppose the hat knows what it's doing."

"Would you be mad if I wound up in Gryffindor?"

"Of course not! I'd try to use you as a spy, if I needed one. Which I guess I don't. Really it's like the rest of life—you get out of it what you make of it."

"Okay. I just want to have fun at school, is all."

"That's fair. But you don't need to be a Gryffindor to have adventures. It's like, are you all about the adventures, or are the adventures about you? If it has to be the first, Gryffindor is a better fit."

"Huh?"

"I mean, do you define yourself by being reckless, or do you have more than one aspect to your personality? If you're complicated, you can go anywhere and do okay."

"Ohhh. Am I complicated?"

Oren hadn't thought about it before. "I guess I don't know . . ." He honestly didn't, and had never gotten to know his sister well enough the first time around to guess. She had, in fact, been in Slytherin then, but he suspected that would change if she got the chance to make something more of herself. "I think you would do fine in Slytherin, but you'd be fine elsewhere, too. A lot of people are in the houses they are because the others aren't good fits, not because they really could have gone multiple places and fit in one better than the others. People like Draco, or Erwin or Bernard wouldn't make it outside of Slytherin. No one would understand them, and they're too close-minded to develop the social skills to deal with anyone else. But Slytherins are _supposed_ to have social skills and be clever about people—lots of them are like that."

"Which are you?"

"Honestly I'm the bad kind of Slytherin. The hat said 'You'd injure your eyes from rolling them too much if I put you anywhere else, so it better be SLYTHERIN!'"

Sarepta giggled.

"It wasn't exactly a compliment to me or the house. So I guess what you really want is for the hat to be confused and take a long time."

"How do I confuse it?"

"I don't know!"

"Okay."

"You look really tired. Should you go to bed?"

"I guess. I don't really want to, though. Are you going to stay up? I don't want to wait for you tomorrow."

"I might regret saying this, but if I don't get up, go ahead and make sure I do. Just, not with a pan of water or anything."

"Okay!"

That was evidently reassuring enough. Oren did _not_ naturally get up with the sun. Sure, he thought, as she went off to her room, he'd probably lie awake thinking for a long time, but it was good for him to get up in the morning, so however annoying his sister was, he probably came out ahead in the end.

As to lying awake, he wanted to get the kinks worked out of his homemade occlumency tricks before going back to school, but Sarepta had been surprisingly willing to help, which changed his plans. The mirror would help, too, if they could get it, and for more reasons than he had let on.


	40. Many Christmases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief glance around at various characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 40: Many Christmases

 

December 26th, 1990.

 

Oliver Wood

Charlie had floo-called, excited about the prospect of Oliver getting Harry Potter as a seeker next year. For once in his life, Oliver was less excited about something quidditch-related than Charlie was, but that was only out of skepticism. They would go over to see Harry tomorrow so Oliver could watch.

Charlie said he'd bring Ginny along to balance things out—Oliver thought Charlie was secretly, or maybe not-so-secretly, trying to get his sister on the team in two years, too. If she turned out to be good, that would be wonderful, of course. But the Weasleys had been lucky to have so many good players in a row—it wasn't a sure bet that the run would continue. Maybe he should get Ron to come over, just for good measure. Sure, why not.

Harry, though, Charlie had less incentive to bend the facts about, so Oliver certainly was _hopeful_. No one would ever accuse him of not being hopeful enough.

 

* * *

 

Neville Longbottom

 

Harry had gotten a lot of presents this year. The biggest thing Neville got was a toad. "It's traditional, you can take it with you to Hogwarts, and it can help you in the greenhouse by eating pests. Isn't he cute?" He eventually conceded that he sort of liked the toad, and went back to his grandmother to say so the next day. A satisfied smile was all he received in return, which was better than her variant of "I told you so."

To be fair to his grandmother, nothing she could give him could compete with the assortment of rocks, nuts, seedpods, dead insects, bits of bone and shell, dried leaves and flowers, and all the other things Luna had found in the woods and brought to him over the few months that he had known her now. Luna had fast become his best friend, and he was incredibly grateful to Albus Dumbledore for meddling with the guest list at his party so that the Lovegoods would be there. His Gran might be mad at Dumbledore for what happened to Harry, but as far as Neville was concerned, the old wizard was okay in his book.

 

* * *

 

Amelia Bones

 

This had been Susan's last Christmas before going off to Hogwarts, and it was probably the last one at which Amelia could get away with giving the same kinds of dolls and storybooks that had made such excellent presents in past years. She would soon have to become more creative.

She was good at creative, but wished her need for it was restricted more to dealing with her niece and less with her job. The case against Peter Pettigrew was a mess. After repeated hearings and questioning under veritaserum, the Ministry had decided that Pettigrew had been under duress when he betrayed James and Lily, and had not in fact intended to hurt anyone with the explosion he caused escaping from Sirius Black.

The wizarding world had no concept of negligent manslaughter, so the normal resolution of a fight like that would be to allow the injured and the families of the deceased to sue for damages. In this case they were all muggles, and the complicated bureaucracy for compensating them had already been taken care of and closed without implicating Pettigrew. Whatever happened with the Weasleys, too, might be too remote from recognized crimes for the Ministry to pursue, and anyway Pettigrew had no assets for Arthur to go after. She was still working on that.

Weasleys aside, that left being an unregistered animagus as the only charge that looked like it would definitely stick, but that law had actually never been used up until now. Animagi were exceedingly rare, and so far all had been either content to register or competent at evading detection. And, by all accounts, Pettigrew had originally become one as a childhood prank and kept it secret because of the war. Lots of wizards had hidden things about themselves during the war, and in general the Ministry had been extremely lenient about that after the fact, at least for those wizards who had opposed Voldemort. And in fact Pettigrew had used his ability for the benefit of the Order of the Pheonix far, far more than he had used it for escaping from them, at least not counting what he did to the Weasleys.

There was also the fact that it was peculiar for the Ministry to put a man behind the bars of Azkaban for the crime of spending the last nine years behind the bars of a cage. Rita Skeeter had been the one to point that out, and had evidently thought it hilarious, as she had brought it up over and over in her articles. Not that Rita cared what happened to Pettigrew; she really _was_ "just a journalist", interested only in sensationalism and getting paid.

A muggle prosecutor would have an easier time, able to pull from any number of obscure, vaguely-worded statutes enacted in the name of "law and order". Normally she preferred the simpler, more civilized, morally saner wizarding laws, but in this case she was frustrated. She could not, in fact, just make stuff up to get the outcome she wanted, which was to keep Pettigrew from being able to join up with any uncaptured Death Eaters. Amelia was pretty sure this is what would happen, even if under veritaserum Peter showed no intention. He was poor and easily intimidated, would be harassed by the public, and his animagus form would be useful to the Death Eaters. Heck, they might even be willing to reward him. So she couldn't just let him go without trying to put him away for _something_.

Oh, certainly the Wizengamot in theory retained the right to create common law crimes (although it hadn't in many decades), but Amelia wasn't sure what she would ask it to do if she decided to go that route. Which she definitely wouldn't. Fudge had instructed the entire Ministry to go slow and avoid the appearance of unfairness or a rigged trial—for once she agreed with him.

This does not mean she didn't have a plan. She was just unhappy about resorting to it. The fact was that what Pettigrew had done at the Weasleys was _creepy_ —creepy enough that she had asked her clerks to come up with a way of charging him as a sex offender. It avoided the embarrassment of the animagus law, and had an actual victim they could point to. She wasn't sure how Arthur would take the idea, though. She _could_ compel Percy's testimony, but that would look extremely bad given the information he would have to disclose in court.

She could hear how it would go already: "Did you normally undress in your room whenever you changed? So about how many times a day was that, and for how long? And was the defendant watching? And what else did you do in front of the rat? Reaally. About how often do you suppose you did that? Please just estimate."

Then they'd have to run it all by Pettigrew to see what he had actually been watching. There was no way she could get away with doing it in a closed session either, or before anything less than the full Wizengamot. Pettigrew was smart—smart enough to realize no one wanted to put Percy through that, or at least he would be if anyone had tipped him off that they were considering any sort of sex crimes charges against him, let alone questioned him about them. She had finally gotten him into Azkaban, though, and was keeping very close watch over who came to speak to him.

For now, that was good, but she was increasingly under pressure to settle on charges and schedule a trial.

 

* * *

 

4 Privet Drive

 

A funny-looking man had arrived at the doorstep a few weeks ago. Vernon simply assumed he was a wizard, even though his style of dress didn't look like either the reporter or the crazy old man. He said he was an "auror"—the wizard equivalent of a police officer, and that he was checking whether anyone had bothered the Dursleys since they had spoken to Rita. No one had. The man said they had been keeping an eye on the street and everything had seemed okay to them, too.

"But, you know," the man had explained, "anything about Harry is big news, and I guess you're pretty famous and controversial now too. It's no different for wizards than muggles—if you get in the news over something like that, there's always some nutjob out there who might decide to come after you.

And Harry, you know, he's ten, and the only real celebrity his age among British wizards, so there are a lot of children who are going to be obsessed with him, too."

"What are you getting at?"

"Just to be a little more careful during Christmas break, when the kids are home from school. Other than that, Mr. Dursley, the problem is we really _don't_ know what to tell you to do. It's the same way for us as it would be for muggle affairs—your police will protect a celebrity for a little while, but once it looks like nothing's going to happen, we're not going to sit around watching you for no reason, and we assume you wouldn't want us to, either."

"Damn straight I wouldn't!"

"Good. Basically, unless something happens before the end of the year, you're on your own with this."

"Are your people behind that boy Malcolm disappearing?"

The man shrugged. "We sure wish we knew—looked into it and got nowhere. Like muggle police, we don't solve every case."

"Hmph."

"Anyway, unless you have questions, I'll leave you alone now."

"Glad to hear it."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Dursley!" The man turned and vanished into the shadows. Vernon didn't even bother watching him go.

He had said nothing to Petunia or Dudley about it, but he had made sure his gun was in working order.

This Christmas had, indeed, been uneventful, but he had spent it being nervous, looking out the windows a lot and jumping at things that weren't there. If his family noticed, they didn't say.

 

* * *

 

Quirinius Quirrel

 

The returning Muggle Studies professor spent Christmas alone in a room at the Leaky Cauldron, feeding arugula to his iguana, leaf by leaf. It was easier for his master to contact him while he was outside of Hogwarts, and he wanted more time to practice his stutter before facing Dumbledore again. Helping his master rise to power would be exciting, but in the meantime he was bored.

 

* * *

 

Alexandra Misselbrook

 

Sandra had point-blank asked her parents, other relatives, Sirius, and anyone who would listen, really, for potions ingredients for Christmas. "I want to brew polyjuice so I can play pranks on people at school," she had said, and then given them a list of ingredients.

This had turned out to be a perfectly fine Christmas-list strategy, assuming it was what she _really, really_ wanted, which it was. Everyone had been pleased to have such an easy way to make her happy, and she now had a whole bunch of ingredients, including a variety not intended for polyjuice, "because it's so nice to see you taking an interest in potions!" Of course, no one had coordinated with anyone else, so she now had five pounds of antimony and no leeches or lacewings. That was fine, those were perishable and weren't good for putting under the tree anyway. Aside from those, though, her loot included all the really annoying ingredients, like the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin.

Restricted section? Bah. Her family hadn't blinked. Maybe if she had asked for love potions . . . actually then they'd just worry about her and give her lectures about boys. At least her parents were sensible, even if her friends weren't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to go a few chapters without distracting author's notes. The reason why will be clear soon enough.
> 
> First, a reminder that there is interesting stuff in the reviews [on Ficwad, mostly] and my responses to them.
> 
> The next chapter is another Trelawney chapter, and one where I give a glimpse of another Hogwarts professor. Again, I am giving Trelawney (and this other professor) out by the teaspoon-full, because there is so much I could do there that it would swallow the rest of the story. Trelawney is one of my foils to wizarding society, because she feels like an outsider everywhere, but the way I have written her she is also a bottomless well of potential NC-17 material.
> 
> So chapter 41 is partly a writing exercise, but using her is a sort of nod to what I hope to do with her later. In chapter 2 I tried to use Trelawney to write myself a blank check with respect to material I was allowed to write, and in chapter 42 (which is not Trelawney-related) I will be cashing it and hoping it's still good. Obviously, I'm really hoping I get away with it.
> 
> Maybe it will be clear why I insisted on waiting so long, maybe it totally won't. I might or might not explain, because the reason is a completely silly one (if, somehow, you have somewhere along the way mistaken this for a Serious Work Of Literature, I'm not sure what's wrong except that you are probably missing a lot of jokes).
> 
> Chapter 42 is explicit, much more epic than anything in the story so far, and several times longer than any other chapter. It -- in three parts, actually -- will either stand on their own two feet or not, and it would detract from them to say too much about them.
> 
> And after that I know what happens but haven't written it yet. :P


	41. Christmas: Sybill Trelawney and Aurora Sinistra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another under-explored canon character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 41: Christmas, Sybill Trelawney and Aurora Sinistra

 

Tuesday, December 25, 1990. Christmas Day, evening.

 

Albus Dumbledore had eaten about as much plum pudding as he possibly could. It had been, all things considered, a good Christmas. He had spent the morning in Hogsmeade with Aberforth, visited the Weasleys in the afternoon, and had returned to Hogwarts to put some finishing touches on decorations before the Feast.

The Christmas Feast, as usual, had involved enormous quantities of food, all of which he felt obligated, as Headmaster, to at least try, on the off chance that one of the elves found out and took it personally.

Most of the faculty stayed for the holidays, as few of them had families to return to. Erasmus had taken an international portkey back to his parents in New Zealand, and Bathsheba actually had grown children to visit. Charity had already moved out and was presumably with her parents before leaving for America. Quirinius wasn't back yet. Everyone else stayed. Albus was unusual even in having a brother to spend Christmas morning with—for most of the professors, Hogwarts was their only family. Or at least, the only family they were speaking to.

The school had not always been this way—there had been times, such as his youth, when professors had families, and might even have lived in Hogsmeade instead of the castle. But the twentieth century had seen some hard times, and he had been able to snatch up some good employees who had nowhere else to go. He hoped that by the time he finally passed on and Minerva took over, things would have swung back in the other direction.

For now, though, the table was quite full—Filius, Severus, Irma, and Argus to his left, and, to his right, Minerva, Pomona, Poppy, Rolanda, Sylvanus, Aurora, Sybill, and Septima, with Hagrid on the far end. He would have preferred to sit directly in the middle with half of his staff on each side, but only Filius was willing to put up with the more cantankerous staff members, and keeping the peace, or the appearance thereof, outweighed aesthetic concerns. When Professor Binns had died, they had tried setting a place for him, but after a while that was given up as excessively awkward. They had left space on that side for ghosts to drift in and visit, though, which had worked out to everyone's satisfaction and made for a good excuse not to have Albus quite so far to one end.

After dinner, he planned to go straight to bed. He had some projects to work on before the students returned on the 7th. Hopefully most of them would involve actual work with wards or something similarly useful, instead of just arguing with people. That, though, was a problem for another day. He was already yawning by the time the food disappeared and everyone went their separate ways.

 

* * *

 

Sybill had trudged up all seven floors of the Grand Staircase, turned towards the southern parts of the castle, and was crossing a connecting bridge to the base of her tower when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, cringed, and spun around.

"Sybill, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." It was Professor Sinistra. "This is a major holiday for you, is it not?"

"You mean for me personally?"

Aurora Sinistra, along with Professor Eeles, had just started teaching at Hogwarts this fall. Aurora seemed young—much younger than Sybill, perhaps barely in her twenties—but Sybill was a lousy judge of age, and too shy to ask questions. Aurora was dark-skinned, spoke passable English with an unplaceable accent, was partial to olive robes, and, though friendly, managed to avoid talking about her past. So Sybill had no idea where Dumbledore had found her, or really anything about her, despite the two of them sitting by each other at meals for the past three months.

Aurora had looked briefly confused by Sybill's question, then looked at her closely. "I think? I assumed you were raised in this country by wizards. I know it is a big holiday for European muggles."

"Oh! Well, it probably would have been if I had family outside the school. I don't, though—my parents died when I was young, and I was raised by my grandmother, who passed away around the time I started working here. Hogwarts is my home."

"The staff do not celebrate together not during meals?"

Sybill smiled weakly. "I don't think so. If they do, they hide it from me."

"May I come up with you, then, and talk before you end the day?"

Sybill felt trapped by this, but had no polite way to say 'no', nor any reason to think Aurora didn't mean well. "I guess." The two started up the three flights of stairs to the classroom. "The classroom is up here so that students are removed from the day-to-day existence of the castle. I have my quarters up here for the same reason."

"You do not like the castle?"

"It's Hogwarts, of course, so it's a wonderful place. It has everything you could wish for in an old Scottish castle that was built to be a school of magic."

"But it is not to your tastes?"

"Up here there is natural light and natural fresh air." They had come up through the trap door into the classroom.

"I can smell that you burn incense, though, and have curtains that can block the light in the classroom. Is that necessary for the methods you teach?"

"Not necessarily, no, but it adds to the ambiance—the feel of the place. It helps keep the students' attention in the room, if not always on me."

"So it is not magically necessary."

"Concentration is necessary for all magic."

"I am sorry. I meant the incense and . . . decorations are not magical."

"No."

"Perhaps you do not tell the students that? Oh!" Aurora has spotted a row of spare crystal balls on the shelf. She held one up to the light, the frowned. "Is this an ornament?"

"No, it's a spare, for students, if they forget theirs."

"Can you do anything with it? Also, it is just glass . . ."

That was intriguing. It was something most professors and students would not think to ask. She would pretend not to understand, to draw Aurora out.

"You've never seen one before? They are crystal balls, used to extend and focus the inner sight. Those who are gifted can use them most successfully, of course. Most students show little ability."

"This is not a crystal ball."

"What do you mean? It is spherical and transparent, and can be used to see the future!"

"It is ordinary glass. A crystal ball seems like it would be a ball made of crystal, right? What you would call it in English . . . 'Crystal' has a rigid, patterned, definite internal structure. It spreads light out into colors better."

"No, no, in English, 'crystal' may also refer to certain types of glass, and in the case of . . . transparent spheres used for divination, they are all called 'crystal balls', no matter how they are made."

"Oh! It is so small, though." Aurora was still frowning.

"How large do you think it ought to be?"

"I have never studied divination magic in depth. I have never seen one this small, so I wondered how well it worked."

"These are . . . intended for children. They are small enough for classroom use, light enough to be carried easily, and inexpensive."

"So for your own use . . . ?"

"I have something else."

"May I see it?"

Sybill was torn. She couldn't really tell what Aurora thought of her, and it was always safer to pretend to be a fraud. But the Astronomy professor seemed so genuinely foreign that she was probably outside of Voldemort's sphere of influence. She decided to compromise.

"If you agree not to talk about it. I can't give away too many secrets." She tried to smile conspiratorially.

"I understand."

"Thank you." She led Aurora through the storage area, into her bedroom. If she were showing it to a student, she would of course be extremely dramatic about it, but tonight she couldn't be bothered.

"This is the Eye of Landewednack." The Eye was about thirty inches across, resting on top of a seven-armed curved frame.

"That is closer to what I was expecting. Do you have a lot of secrets like this?"

"Not more than most of the other faculty, I think. Many things no one asks about."

"Have you ever shown this to a student?"

"Once in a while, if there is an unusually promising one. I haven't in a few years."

Aurora nodded, then looked straight at her. "Some of the other professors believe you are a fraud. Perhaps they are right for the wrong reason?" Sybill didn't like how this was going. No matter what happened, it would mean a lot of work. Aurora gestured toward a small table near a window. "Could we sit down?"

"I suppose." Sybill got a second chair, then sat down, facing the door.

"I will join you soon." Aurora looked around the room. In front of Sybill's mirror, on her dresser, and extending into the shelves of an adjacent cabinet, was a small bar. Sybill winced at having left all that out, but Aurora seemed unfazed—either she was expecting to find it, or it meant something to her other than 'drinking problem'. Sybill hoped it was the latter, but assumed the worst, as Aurora looked thoughtfully at the various glasses. She eventually selected two thick, cut-crystal pint glasses, the intended purpose of which Sybill had long ago forgotten.

"I have brought something to share with you." She placed the glasses on the table and used her wand to fill them halfway with something that bubbled, explaining "just water." Aurora's wand was glass, or glasslike, leaving the wand core visible, if unidentifiable.

"I've never seen a wand like that. Glass?"

"More or less. Like your Eye."

"Made under high heat, then. So you'd have to keep the core from burning. What is it?"

"Ancient secret." Sybill must have looked surprised. "Truthfully, I do not know what it is or how it was made. But that is not why I am here." She smiled and held up a small satchel, from which she withdrew a bottle of fire.

The clear glass bottle was the right size and shape for wine, and had been corked in the same way, but contained a swirling yellow liquid that glowed like the center of a brightly-burning fireplace. It was like the windows had been shuttered at noon, and someone had opened them a crack, except it was shining in all directions from the bottle, instead of in from outdoors. Aurora pointed her wand at the cork, said something quietly, and caused it to come out with a 'schlunk!' then fall onto the table.

Sybill had been too stunned to say anything until her glass shone with shifting yellow light. The carbonation burst from the surface like sparks. It was strongly alcoholic—that was clear from several feet away—but beyond that, the scent seemed to bypass her normal senses entirely. It was like she was smelling magic. She looked across at Aurora, and was confused.

"Try it." She picked up the glass, mirroring the woman in front of her. It was warm to the touch. Aurora smiled expectantly, and brought it to her lips; Sybill followed.

She had expected something like firewhiskey—it looked like fire, so she naturally expected a burning sensation. It was nothing like that.

It was like drinking the morning on a clear winter day, like closing your eyes and looking up as the pale sun warmed your face from above and reflected off the snow below. It was life when the world was ice, melting the dark, torchlit castle stone from Sybill's spirit. The alcohol—which was genuinely very strong—carried it through her nose and sinuses, filled her throat, filled her head and chest, and spread slowly outwards to her fingers and toes.

Nothing she could say was really adequate.

Her question seemed hopelessly prosaic even before she said it, but surely Arora understood. "What is it?"

"Vodka infused with magic from the sun. With sunlight. I made it this morning."

"How?"

"Ancient secret." She grinned. "But one I actually know. It is a taste of home, however much I have put that behind me . . . You can do it with the right kind of telescope, and some charms to keep the whole apparatus pointed in the right direction. Sunlight is the easiest. Here." She pulled a lumpy piece of white cloth from the satchel, and unfolded it on the table. "Dates. Another taste of home. There is a palmetum in the greenhouse which Professor Sprout never uses, so she lets me take whatever I want."

"Do the palms resist much?"

Aurora looked confused. "No. Should I be concerned about that?"

Sybil shrugged. "The Hogwarts greenhouses specialize in violent plants."

"The palms seem entirely non-magical. Try a date. You have probably never had one that was fresh from the tree before." She hadn't. "Merry Christmas."

It was in fact one of the better Christmases Sybill had had in years. "Thank you. You too. You asked if it was a big holiday—where exactly are you from? And please don't answer 'ancient secret' again." She pointed across the table, and laughed. She wasn't sure she could separate out the effects of the magic and the alcohol.

"Well, it is truly an ancient secret. It is one of the Great Cities of wizarding civilization. It claims to be as old as Atlantis, but that is difficult to prove.

In English it gets called something like Imkasherrett. In my native language it is Mcɔʂʂəɻɛt—don't bother trying. You might also know it as the City of Glass. No? People there believe the city is very important, but on the outside, I have met very few who have heard of it.

The city is built on a group of rocky hills sticking out of the sand of the Sahara Desert. The available building materials there are limited. You have a lot of sand. The early residents were ambitious, but their plans could not happen without many adaptations. So they became very skilled at working with glass."

"That explains some of the past half hour."

"Yes."

"Why did you leave?"

She shrugged, and sipped at her drink. "To see the world, and because I did not like my family's expectations of me. It is complicated."

"Does Hogwarts count as seeing the world?"

Aurora looked thoughtful. "For now it does. It is certainly easier to see the world from here than it was at home. The City of Glass is not easy to leave or to enter. The wards extend for a hundred miles, and no magical transportation will work. Even then you cannot go directly—you must spiral in or out, by foot or cart or camel. So it takes a very long time. It is not a good trade route, but no invaders have ever gotten very far. In Hogwarts, the wards extend only a few thousand feet at most, and then you can take the floo or a portkey to many different places. I have seen you take advantage of this."

Aurora looked like she was about to ask something probing. "I go to London sometimes. It's nice to get away. When did you leave? How did you get here?" Sybill was trying to deflect attention from herself, and anyway Aurora's stories were far more interesting than her own.

"I took my savings and bought a tent, a camel, and several months of supplies. I gathered up my things and had left before my family realized I was gone. I left a note—it was not a mystery why I left. No one came after me." She shrugged. "It took almost two moons to get free of the wards, and as I had no other means of transportation, I continued on northwards to the sea.

It was long and hot and boring, and I had to stop for sandstorms many times. I would wake up the next day with the tent covered in sand, and the camel panicking in its compartment. Without magic I would have been trapped.

There is an island fortress on the coast of the Mediterranean. It has been our trading partner for thousands of years, since the time of Carthage, so once you are free of the dunes there is a wizards' road the rest of the way which muggles cannot find. That fortress also has ancient wards, and you cannot use most magical transportation to or from it. I sold some jewelry there to pay my way on a boat to Malta, where I sold some more jewelry and rented a house for three moons."

"You keep saying moons . . ."

"We don't have very interesting seasons, because we are near the equator. The phases of the moon are the most dramatic change to measure things by. It has always been done this way."

This explanation seemed good enough; she continued:

"Malta has many ancient wizarding villages, and an excellent library, which is where I met Headmaster Dumbledore. He recognized my clothes and asked if I was from Mcɔʂʂəɻɛt, which he could pronounce correctly. That was the only word I recognized, so I answered in my native language. It turned out that the name was the _only_ word he knew, but he could cast a translation spell.

I was not taught translation spells, because there was no point. Why learn to talk to foreigners when no one ever leaves? Let them learn our language instead. The few who can find us seem to enjoy speaking it, and we are friendly enough.

The Headmaster told me that Hogwarts had lost its astronomy teacher, and asked me whether I wanted the job. I asked why he had not tested my knowledge first, and he said he did not want to insult me, because of the reputation of my people as legendary astronomers. I had no idea who he was, or what Hogwarts was." She gestured dramatically now. They had both drunk enough that they were starting to show it. "So I told him he was silly. He said 'Ah, but you _are_ qualified to teach, right? Are you saying you are not a good astronomer?' I got angry, and answered 'I am an excellent astronomer!' Then I realized why he had tried not to insult me." She smiled, sheepishly.

"Dumbledore wants everything to make a good story. You must have been the perfect candidate for him!"

"Not yet, not yet. He said he would hire me on the condition that I learn enough English by the time school started this fall. Which I did. And here I am!"

"Your English is excellent, although I guess spending several months doing nothing else but study it probably helped. Dumbledore must have hoped you would teach the students lots of . . . ancient secrets. Have you?"

Ignoring for the moment any boys Sybill had met in nightclubs, she was having the longest, happiest conversation with someone other than Acamar, or any other woman at all, that she had had in years. Sure, the alcohol helped, but it seemed to help Aurora too, and neither was so drunk that she would forget the conversation tomorrow. At least, not yet.

"No, not yet. I am either teaching the basics, or compensating for many years of no one teaching the basics. And many ancient secrets involve expensive equipment."

"Hmmmm. You and I, we have departments with small budgets. Snape and Erasmus get a lot to play with, and Pomona practically has a small empire of her own, there in the greenhouses! You know, there is a member of the board of governors who has asked me what I would do with more money. I haven't decided what to say."

"Get better crystal balls?"

"I've considered that, yes . . . I don't want to push my luck."

"Because you want to keep looking like a fraud. But why?"

Sybill sighed. "It's complicated? There are many reasons. You know—I think I trust you with this—but be careful!" They both laughed. "See, a real seer is dangerous, or at least, their enemies will always think so. And we had this dark wizard and his followers, and probably will again if no one stops them, and I just don't want to get tangled up with them. Dumbledore doesn't want me to either, which is convenient. You had a famous city, I had a famous grandmother. Exact same idea. So I make a good story for him.

But Divination is just a weird subject, you know? Almost no one is any good at it, no matter how expensive their . . . equipment. But it's traditional to teach it at Hogwarts. And somehow everyone expects a Divination professor, or any seer, to look and act certain ways. They can tell themselves it's okay they don't have the gift, because it's all useless. Or they take the class because their parents did. I rarely—never, I guess—know what's going on politically, so I have to be very very careful what I say to people. That's about it, I guess."

"But you go to London every weekend to get away from that?"

"I have a family friend there. It helps me clear my head."

"But the family friend is not the only thing you are there for, right?" Aurora looked puzzled; this was not a rhetorical question. Sybill blushed.

"I sometimes go to bars . . . nightclubs . . . try to meet people who aren't wizards, and pretend my problems don't exist."

"Are you going to do that again soon?"

"Probably." She had actually planned to leave tomorrow, see Acamar, and go out on the town that night. Maybe if she didn't have to go home right away, her adventures would be more fun. "Why do you ask?"

"I would like you to take me with you."

"Oh." Sybill was at a loss. What would she do with someone wanting to play tourist? Is that even what Aurora wanted from her? "Have you been to Diagon Alley?"

"Not yet. But _you_ avoid the wizard areas. I do not want to go somewhere you want to avoid. That is no fun! If you think English bars and nightclubs are worth seeing, I want to go to them too! I want to get muggle clothes, too. I bought these robes in Hogsmeade—my clothes from home would stand out here. Please?"

"I guess we can start with clothes. I've been transfiguring mine for years, but there's only so much I can do that way. I've heard of a department store run by squibs—I'd like to go see it. How does that sound?"

"Perfect! Tomorrow afternoon we can go? I usually sleep late, because my classes are at night. Could we eat lunch in London? You must know good restaurants, right?"

"Would it work to meet by the doors at noon tomorrow, and walk to Hogsmeade?"

"It would. That is settled, then. So. Ah. Could you show me how this Eye of Landu . . ."

"Landewednack. It's a place in Cornwall. My family's from there."

"Can you show me how it works?"

"Suuuure. Come over here and sit down. Go ahead, touch it—use both hands, get your palms on it. With a student I'd make a little speech . . . I don't know . . . just think of a question, sort of push your magic into it, and try to focus on the center."

"That is vague. Can I ask what would happen if I did various things?"

"Sure. That's one of the major uses of divination magic, choosing between courses of action. Most people are bad at it, but that _is_ what they're trying to do a lot of the time."

Aurora had a look of intense concentration. It was a sign she had succeeded at doing _something_ with the Eye, but there was no way to let more than one person use a crystal ball simultaneously, so Sybill knew to wait and keep her mouth shut. Her students were never good enough to get something from the Eye so quickly, which made this young Professor all the more intriguing. Perhaps it helped if you were very familiar with glass.

Maybe the alcohol was helping her, too. Sybill couldn't really say—she had spent so much time using the Eye while intoxicated that it now worked equally well whether she was drunk or sober. Maybe she should try getting her students drunk and having them try. No, that sounded bad. Well, if she got away with the pigeons, and the mandrakes worked out . . . She really wanted to know what Aurora was seeing. Eventually she gave up on the idea of asking and sat back down at the table to sip her drink.

Without looking up, the Astronomy professor said "hey, you can use this for scrying, too!"

"If you're good, yes. What are you looking at?"

"I would prefer not to say."

Sybill giggled. "There _are_ a few places you can't scry on, here in the castle, even with the Eye, you know. If you're so good, can you figure out what they are?"

"Ooh! That sounds like fun." She look of concentration looked even more intense, except now she was smiling.

"The library works. The Restricted Section works. The Great Hall works—it is so pretty in there with the lights off and the decorations up! The Headmaster's suite is blocked. So is this room. Can you look at yourself?"

"Normally, but I set up wards to block it."

"Okay. Hey! You can see into my quarters! But not Flitwick's, or Snape's . . . Professor Sprout is asleep. Most of the professors are blocked. You can see into the students dorms?"

"Only some places. Keep looking."

"Gryffindor . . . all seven years, bathrooms, everything. Same with Hufflepuff." She concentrated for a while. "You can even see into the prefect's bathroom, too. I was able to see everywhere! Was I missing something?"

Sybill was grinning. "Yes. Want to keep trying, or shall I tell you?"

"Tell me."

"You only looked at the boys, didn't you."

"Ohhhhhhh." If Aurora had skin light enough to show it, Sybill was sure she would be blushing.

"You will find that the entire Ravenclaw girls' dorm is blocked, bathrooms and all. Same with the Slytherin girls' bathrooms, and a few of the private rooms of the older girls. Some of the Slytherin boys ward their rooms, but I don't think that's built into the castle. That's it, though."

"Why . . .?"

Sybill just shrugged. "Ancient secret?"

"It must be your turn to say it, now! Do you know how this was made?" She gestured to the Eye.

"No idea. It's been in my family for many generations."

"And you use it to spy on students!"

"You've already shown your _own_ . . . proclivities just now, so I _know_ you would, too. You only asked how it was made so you can make your own!"

"Maybe. I bet I could figure it out on my own. I wonder . . ." Aurora stared into it in silence for several seconds. "This is really powerful! It seems like the power weakens as you look further away, but I can scry into London from here."

"The magic comes from the user, you know. Did you use a lot of magic items made from glass, back home?"

"Of course!"

"Maybe that helps? Or maybe you're just a gifted seeress and don't know it."

"How would I know?"

"Do you ever have awful dreams that later come true?"

"Noo . . ."

"Lose consciousness, go into a trance, talk in a weird voice and say things you don't remember later?"

"No."

This was puzzling! Surely it wasn't like a magic telescope or something, where working with glass and optics conferred some generalizable ability? Well, maybe. Right, one more thing to check. "Do you ever use . . . oh. The alcohol is magic, isn't it? What exactly does it do?"

"That is complicated. You know astrology, right?"

"Extensively."

"The process concentrates the magic of the chosen . . . astronomical object. In this case, the sun."

"So . . . it is letting you make the most of your magic. Giving you your chance to shine, to project yourself into the scrying . . ."

"Right! Although the effect is probably weak. The sun's magic is as you described it, but still extremely generic. My skill is probably not from the drink. Using a magic device like this is hard, and I imagine they are very rare outside of my city, so I have more experience than your students."

"Would Mercury work better?"

"Yes! For scrying, I would expect it to."

"Can you do the same thing with any celestial body?"

"You are limited by the power of your telescope and by your ability to operate it, as well as your ability to do the magic of the infusion itself. You are also limited by what is there in the sky to point your telescope at. The sun must be up to work with the sun, for instance."

"Ohhhh. So you could do the moon, too, with a small telescope?"

Aurora looked slightly irritated. "If it were full, that would be easy. Objects of higher magnitude would be harder, since the Hogwarts telescopes are just teaching equipment. They are like your little crystal balls. Enormous sums were spent on giant orreries, but students bring their own telescopes! Why? It makes no sense."

"Oh. You know, Mr. Malfoy from the Board of Governors seems to be looking for things to throw money at. I bet we could convince him to help . . ."

That was evidently the wrong thing for Sybill to say.

"I do not plan to teach anyone how to make this. It is not something we teach to outsiders." Then, less seriously, she added "also I was hoping to sell some at very high prices."

"Ohhhh. Okay."

Aurora thought for a moment, then said "there are reasons to study astronomy apart from exciting drinks, though, and the equipment here really is inadequate. Perhaps he could still be convinced?"

"It's worth a try."

"Also I notice you have carefully changed the subject from your scrying on the students."

"Remember you promised not to talk . . ."

"I think we now have an equal number of secrets about the other, and I still want you to take me to London!"

"Oh, good. Um, I wasn't . . . _really_ worried."

"I know."

 

* * *

 

Wednesday, December 26, 1990

 

The next day, in the early afternoon, Sybill and Aurora trudged through the snow down to the main gate. It was almost always easier to go through a pub than the alternative, which involved asking the Headmaster if they could use his floo and then having to explain what they were up to. In this case he would probably _approve_ , which Sybill thought was actually kind of annoying. She should be able to make friends without his grandfatherly sense of _approval_ spoiling everything.

She wasn't sure how much she planned to get up to anything he'd disapprove of today, either, which was also annoying. Not that she'd say it to Dumbledore, but she liked the idea of telling him "oh, your new astronomy professor got me drunk last night and convinced me to accompany her into London, buy some revealing muggle outfits together, and help her pick up boys in bars." She wasn't explicitly planning that, or at least, not the last part. The bit about muggle outfits was certainly on the agenda, but they hadn't really discussed what happened next beyond _going_ to bars or nightclubs.

If they _did_ do that, of course, it had the potential to either be great fun or an absolute train-wreck. It would be nice if she at least dressed well for it, either way. She hoped the department store would be able to help her with her own wardrobe. It had so far not been very confidence-building to do things her current way, which was to use confundus charms for getting into clubs when her outfit wasn't up to the bouncers' standards.

As to the bit about getting drunk last night, that was probably only half true. It was hard to tell what the effects were of the sun-vodka, or whatever it ought to be called in English. She had totally given up on trying to pronounce anything from Aurora's language—far too many exotic consonants.

This had been made overwhelmingly clear when Aurora had decided they needed to share drinking songs. Apparently the English were well-known for this abroad, and it was just expected that Sybill would have a rich cultural heritage of pub songs to draw on. After carefully explaining that she was _not_ , in fact, English, but Cornish, she added that even on top of that she was a witch and would not have learned all these bits of muggle culture anyway. There followed a brief explanation of British history which basically boiled down to everybody fighting all the time and the English over-running everybody else, and no, their language was not dead, but yes, mostly her country had better things to do than engaging in random acts of domestic terrorism over things that happened many centuries ago. Unlike _some_ people.

As to genuine folk art, wizards had very little of it. The few things done by the Hogwarts choir were mostly Shakespeare settings, and while that was a piece of culture shared with muggles, that didn't make 'Double, Double, Toil and Trouble' an actual _drinking_ song (although, as Aurora pointed out, maybe it ought to be one).

Most of all this was lost on Aurora, who changed the topic back to actual singing, and insisted on sharing songs from home. Not that Sybill minded—Aurora had an absolutely beautiful voice. Sybill was surprised, too, at her new friend's skill at rendering song lyrics into mostly-comprehensible English while intoxicated.

"Okay," she had said, after singing several verses of something, "let's see if I can translate that:

 _When the dark reds of the early sunset  
Hit the entrance to the solar duct of, uh, the name of a famous djinn,_

That is an actual thing, you can go see that place. A solar duct is like a curved, horizontal light well, to bring light to parts of the city that are in shadow. And no one has seen a djinn in a very long time, but they were once important to the city. It goes on:

 _And the evening wind swirls the sand  
Around the inner wards,  
A girl of two hundred moons comes to her garden  
And waits for her lover as the sunset turns to blue._

 _Then the night-lizard climbs the wall,  
And it says to her, 'he will not come,  
You are a foolish girl, he will not come.'_

Okay, then it does the same thing with the jasmine vine, a beetle, and the orange tree. Then it goes on:

 _As she waits, her star appears, and his appears,_

Uh, British wizards use stars for first names, but we have them as family names. Sinistra is in Ophiuchus. So the song means her family's star, and the same for him.

 _Far across the sky from one another,_

Uh, sometimes there is pressure to . . . uh, marry certain people based on where their families' stars are. It is . . . bad. You would not like it. The song avoids saying if that happened here, but them being far apart means he is a lover of her heart, not someone their families chose.

Which causes her to hope,

I think she hopes because it is far away and she wants to get away from her family, but people argue.

 _and to scold the lizard,  
the jasmine, the orange tree, and the beetle.  
And when the moon rises orange through the wall,_

The garden wall would be made of glass, and it was probably on a hill facing the moonrise.

 _Then little footsteps come down the street,  
And her lover scares the lizard from the wall,_

The top of the wall is probably street-level, because it is . . . sunken and the city is . . . terraced?

 _And the beetle flies from the jasmine  
As he climbs down the orange tree to her arms._

It is very sweet! I like to think she escapes."

 

There was a lot in there that Sybill decided she should avoid asking about for now. Maybe Aurora ran away from a forced marriage? That sounded exciting. It would also explain her interest in being able to pick up muggle boys. Sybill couldn't tell whether it was the chance to make her own choices that mattered, or whether the actual boys were important, too. Maybe she would find out, once they were done shopping.


	42. Into the Glade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie Weasley goes into the Forbidden Forest on a cold winter morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: With this and the next two chapters, I need to update the content warnings. Those warnings are for real this time.
> 
> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Into the Glade

 

Saturday, January 12, 1991

 

The floor of the Forbidden Forest lay hidden under a foot and a half of snow. Branches were lined with white where the wind had not cleared them. The boughs of conifers drooped under the weight. Creeks and pools were frozen over beneath the snow, and animals likewise had retreated deep into their nests and burrows, coming out reluctantly, and only when it was unavoidable.

A few hardy birds remained, spending the long nights huddled wherever the wind couldn't get them, puffed up into little balls. Birds in the winter need a lot of energy just to keep warm through the night; their short daylight hours must be spent in near-constant search of food. The handful of Hogsmeade residents who put out seed and crumbs found their yards extremely popular, both with their regular visitors and a few more elusive ones, driven by hunger to join their tamer cousins in accepting handouts. Those who did not or could not take advantage of human generosity had a more difficult time, spending the short days diligently probing bark and rotting wood for insects and their eggs, scrounging seeds from the heads of plants still peeking above the snow, or flocking reluctantly in the bushes with the less-preferred berries which remained after their favorites were gone.

Post owls were, for most species, capable of diving into the snow for the mice that tunneled beneath it. Given the choice, though, they preferred to stay in the owlery and have food brought to them by the house elves, leaving only when sent out with mail or to fly into the Great Hall during meals and beg for extra bacon.

There is a substantial ecological impact when hundreds of owls share the same hunting grounds—many smaller predators were scarce on the school grounds. There were still large ones—those who could take down animals like deer, which owls ignored. These, too, either hibernated (acromantulas, and, surprisingly enough, trolls) or struggled (hippogriffs, thestrals).

Merely being magical does not ensure proof against the elements. Unicorns, white on white, were more elusive than ever, and the few signs of their presence were little different from those of the non-magical red deer who shared their habits—needles stripped from yews and anything else green and non-poisonous, hoofprints, droppings. Centaurs, much more resistant to cold than their appearance would suggest, nevertheless huddled together for warmth. The forest, of course, contained all manner of smaller, vaguely humanoid monsters—fairies, pixies, gnomes, bowtruckles—which adapted in ways as diverse as their other habits.

All of these were scarce in this weather, having disappeared to wherever it was they went when the forest didn't meet their needs.

Charlie hadn't even bothered to check with Hagrid this morning. The two of them had agreed that the forest was less dangerous than usual, even if the weather itself wasn't, and besides, Charlie knew what he was doing. He was dressed for the weather, and carried a bag packed with everything he thought he might need. The house elves weren't worried about the brave Charlie Weasley being unsafe in the woods! No, not him! And they enjoyed the challenge of packing him food for the day. Usually their enthusiasm left him with enough for several days, which he liked having, just in case.

He had tried to get Fred and George to come, but they were off on some super-secret project they weren't ready to tell him about yet. Percy had politely, almost apologetically, expressed his disinterest. Oliver Wood thought he was nuts, and said so. None of them liked the idea of leaving at dawn, either.

Charlie had long ago given up on trying to get girls to come with him—he assumed there must be girls who shared his interests, but had no idea how to find them. What was he supposed to do, post a singles ad in the halls somewhere? "Single male wizard seeks witch. Must enjoy leaving the castle after curfew to explore the Forbidden Forest and sneak up on dangerous animals. If interested, meet on the other side of the Whomping Willow at midnight." The only one who would show up would be Professor McGonagall, in order to drag him back by the ear and give him a week of detention.

This was why he was alone today, hovering in the canopy, staying very still and scanning the forest for movement. It was extremely quiet. A woodpecker, far away, tapped intermittently at a dead tree. Branches creaked. The January sun was pale through the overcast sky, shining through to a world of whites and greys. His breath condensed in front of him. Charlie didn't like using warming charms in weather like this—humans cut themselves off from the world far too readily, he thought, and it's best to experience the forest as it is, not as someone might think it should be.

In the distance, above the trees, he watched as a speck of grey and red resolved itself into a hippogriff carrying a deer. For a magical animal that humans could ride, a deer was not an unreasonable prey for a hippogriff, but it was bigger than their usual rabbits and squirrels. Maybe the deer were worse at hiding? Maybe it had young to feed? There were no reports of neighboring farmers complaining of missing cattle, so the magical predators presumably stuck to their natural prey, even in the winter. The deer was a mystery, and the hippogriff was coming this way. Charlie would follow it.

It in fact passed within a hundred yards of him, paying him no heed. He took off after it as close as he dared, matching its speed while weaving through the tree-tops below it. It dived into a stand of old holly trees and disappeared.

Charlie circled, and eventually satisfied himself that the hippogriff could not have come out the other side without him noticing. Carefully, carefully, he edged between the trees. These formed a ring four or five trees deep, regular enough to suggest deliberate landscaping in the distant past, but thick enough, with enough ancient specimens, to suggest that that past was truly distant. Hollies, even enchanted ones, grew slowly.

In the center of the ring were two boulders, about fifteen feet apart. The hippogriff had landed on one side of these—dragging the deer with it, dripping blood. Even without the deer, Charlie could have followed by its distinctive claw-and-hoof footprints, or failing that, the blown and displaced snow that revealed its wingspan. There was nothing subtle about a hippogriff, especially in this situation.

Charlie was absolutely positive it had simply disappeared. It was too big to perch in the dense thicket formed by the hollies, even on the lower branches of the oldest trees. Everything about this hinted at Founders-Era magic. His heart raced with excitement—if this was what he hoped it was, it was a part of Hogwarts unseen in living memory or recorded history.

He knew how these things worked. If a flying animal thought it had to go on foot into the enchanted wood, you imitated it. He added some snow-proofing charms to his feet, landed, and stowed his broom away. As he suspected, once he had followed the tracks through the boulders, the trail of the hippogriff faded into view, continuing off through the trees.

Charlie followed, spotting the beast on the far side of the trees, still on foot, using its beak to drag the deer by the neck. He could recognize most of the hippogriff herd if he could get close enough to see distinguishing marks, and they likewise knew him, but this was not the time to make assumptions. He let it get as far away as he dared before slipping out of the shadows after it.

After a quarter mile, they reached the head of a valley, no doubt accompanied by flowing water in warmer weather. So far the topography had mimicked that which Charlie was familiar with, and if it weren't for the walking hippogriff and the strange circle he had entered through, he would not have noticed that the trees were in different places than he was used to. But the valley erased any doubts he harboured.

Before, he would have expected a little, stream-carved ravine that led gently down a few hundred feet before meeting a larger brook. That, in turn, would meander through a small forested valley bounded by miles of rolling moorland. Instead, the valley turned a corner and became a deep canyon. Rocky cliffs topped by a wooded upland rose on either side, reaching heights comparable to the castle itself. The canyon widened as it descended until the cliffs were a hundred feet apart, and the path down was lined on both sides with intermittent allees of ancient hollies.

'If you can build a castle, you can dig a ditch,' thought Charlie.

Up to this point, the hippogriff's tracks were all Charlie saw, but the snow had clearly undergone substantial drifting. It tapered off down here, either having blown past or somehow being magically diverted. Bare earth and scruffy grass remained, at last giving Charlie a record going back more than a few hours. He was not disappointed; this was a busy thoroughfare for almost everything.

When he wasn't excitedly staring at the ground, he was looking up. The canyon walls were rough but relatively even, tapering outwards somewhat. Sharp edges showed little evidence of weathering, reinforcing the impression (to a keen observer, at least) of land that had been pushed upwards, then pulled apart slightly here, just enough for the valley to sink into the rift. A muggle geologist would surely know more; Charlie cursed in frustration at the limits of a Hogwarts education.

It was not for nothing that Hagrid and Kettleburn respected him, though. He produced from his bag a sketchbook and spent a few minutes sketching the scene—a procedure he planned to repeat at regular intervals. Once he got further down, he would take a sample rock and stuff it into one of the many unused pockets of his backpack.

The end of the canyon was satisfyingly odd. To either side, the cliffs—thousands of feet high at this point—turned outwards, and Charlie found himself facing a shimmering wall through which he could make out a distorted version of the moorland lying on this side of the Forbidden Forest. Fine. Not all magical distortions of space needed elegant boundaries like the ring of hollies or the wall of Platform 9 3/4, and Charlie was not about to take issue with the founders' epic landscaping efforts.

At this point he had a very simple decision—left or right. He picked 'right', more or less arbitrarily. No matter which way he went, it was bound to a good decision, right? The cliff continued on for half a mile or so, leaving about twenty feet between it and the barrier—too narrow for a hippogriff's wingspan.

Charlie assumed it must have flown off by now. He had decided, though, to reserve his broom for life-threatening emergencies—nothing else could outweigh curiosity. The same rule applied to touching the shimmering barrier. He had no way of knowing if he could ever find his way back here if he accidentally left, so he wasn't going to leave until . . . well, he'd decide that later. This late in his education, even the threat of expulsion couldn't scare him into worrying about curfew right now.

At last the cliff turned back again to his right, away from the barrier, leaving another half mile of plain between itself and high, forested hills. As Charlie came around the corner, he saw that the scruffy, grassy strip did not extend much further back, here—small shrubs grew along it, and behind them soon gave way to trees. Rising above them in the distance, a wide, forested valley was cut into the hills.

In the distance ahead of him, the hills looked like the regular forest, and in fact snow cover began halfway up their slopes. The valley on his right, though, was greener and much more dramatic in terms of landscape. So, the valley it was.

Charlie found a muddy path into the bushes, and had not gone very far before realizing the air had lost its edge of chill. Normally a breeze coming down a valley would be cold. Of course, anyone who could rearrange the landscape on this scale could easily create whatever climate they pleased for it.

The forest soon grew dense, dark, and coniferous. The ground, even on the path, was spongy—a bed of fallen needles littered with cones and interrupted only by gnarled roots. The largest trees had trunks many feet in diameter; these dominated the canopy where they stood, creating a dark space beneath which nothing could grow and where lower branches were pointless to maintain. Here and there one of these elders had fallen, often taking neighbors with it, leaving a clearing where young trees could germinate.

There was a squirrel, high above him. An ordinary one—non-magical, non-gliding. It stayed persistently red and its ears stayed tufted as it made its way, leaping, through the canopy ahead. 'Nice place, if you like pine cones,' he thought. Fairly soon he saw light ahead through the pines and spruces, accompanied by shades of green, pink, and white. These soon resolved into flowering trees, and the tang of the pine forest gave way to the scent of their blossoms.

The forest had been cool—not freezing, but enough that he was glad for his warm cloak. Leaving its shade, he abruptly hit a wall of warm air. In front of him was an apple orchard, but one that had been convinced to discard its ideas about seasons. Buds, flowers, and fruit in all stages were present on every tree.

The trees were obviously ancient—thick trunks and branches displayed the elegant growth habit of orchard trees, enhanced with age and magic. It was possible they were actively tended, but he saw no signs of pruning. Grass and flowers grew at their full height beneath them, and he saw no signs of disease or barriers to keep deer from chewing the bark. Charlie thought it more likely that someone—he guessed Helga Hufflepuff herself—had decided the band of forest behind him should have conifers, and this place should contain apple trees, and that they should remain this way in perpetuity, magically unhindered by any forces promoting ecological succession.

He was sure no one could do this today. How did this knowledge get lost? Were the founders so immensely powerful that no one else could do it their way again, and would have to discover new techniques on their own? Was the knowledge, too, hidden away like this orchard, or Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, only to be interacted with every few centuries or more, perhaps by heirs of the founders? So far as he knew, the Weasleys weren't descendants of anyone more exciting than other Weasleys. Not that there was anything wrong with that. In any event, he was probably not anything so ridiculous as a magically-favored Heir of Hufflepuff or the like. Maybe Salazar Slytherin was egotistical enough to leave a chamber only his descendants could open, but Charlie strongly suspected that no such magic contributed to his own ease in, say, getting around the grounds without detection. At Hogwarts, any student could make their own luck.

A little ways into the orchard, a smaller path angled off the main one, and Charlie decided to risk going down it. It was still a path, right? You could do that kind of thing in stories and have it be okay.

This led to the sound of chewing, coming from a somewhat larger apple tree bearing much larger apples. They were nearly a foot wide, mottled yellow and orange, hanging on thick stems from a tree with bright orange blossoms. The chewing came from a squirrel -- perhaps the same one. It was at about eye level, taking big bites out of a hanging apple, and watching Charlie while it chewed.

"Squirrel, you are standing on your food. That apple is what—ten? Twenty times your weight? Are you planning on eating the whole thing?"

The apples looked pretty good, actually. He was tempted to try one, but that never went well in stories. In a fairy tale, if you went to an enchanted world and ate the food, sometimes you could never get back, or if you could, you lost the ability to eat ordinary food ever again.

Charlie also recalled the story from muggle religion, where the first humans had been created and placed in a huge garden, and for some reason the creator god told them not to eat the apples from certain trees. That bit never made any sense to him—Dad called that kind of thing 'nose-beans'. Anyway, they also had an antagonist to the creator god—there was supposed to be only one god in those religions, so this bit had never been explained to Charlie's satisfaction. _Anyway_ , the antagonist took the form of a snake, and it sat in one of the forbidden apple trees and convinced the first humans to eat its fruit. The rest of the story made even less sense, but the basic point of the narrative was to be wary of animals eating fruit in trees, right?

This squirrel did not strike Charlie as a likely candidate for divine antagonist.

"You don't talk, do you?"

The squirrel swallowed, paused, and looked right at Charlie. Then it leaned over, took another big bite, and resumed chewing. Temptation today was not taking the form of a Hard Sell.

"Not going to try to sell me anything in exchange for my soul?"

The squirrel had stopped dignifying Charlie with responses.

"Maybe on the way back, then?"

He continued on the main path. He was certainly not alone with the squirrel—there were butterflies and bees, and he saw flashes of color as birds flitted around just out of sight. The cliffs here edged back into terracing, the tiers of vegetation giving the illusion of a smoother hill beneath. Next came a diverse grove of nut trees, and a swampy bit where a little stream came down from the winding canyon ahead and disappeared underground.

He was walking along the right-hand wall, now. The canyon was divided here by a thicket of vegetation that grew up around the stream. The other side was far enough away that there could be other patches of different trees over there. Canyons, though, are exciting—they give you a clear goal (go further in!) and the promise of hidden things revealed to the persistent.

The ground was getting sandier, the air warmer. It was definitely like summer here. The terrace above him was well over a hundred feet up. The trees up there looked like they might be olives. He cursed his lack of omnioculars, vowing to obtain some by any means necessary when he went back to the castle, whenever that was.

Time. He had sort of hoped that the sun would move more slowly here or something, but it didn't. It was edging westward, and the far canyon wall would soon start casting a shadow. That was fine. It would still be day for a few more hours, and he had no fear of retracing his steps in the dark. But he had gear with him to sleep out here, if he had to . . . He put that thought aside for now.

Nut trees had given way to citrus, pomegranates, mangoes, avocados, and others he didn't recognize. He decided he would take some fruit on the way out. Yes, that was okay, right? It wasn't like some monster's hoard, where it would notice if you took as much as a knut (or, in this case, a nut). Was it?

There was a flash of gold in an orange tree, and a small round bird darted into view—a golden snidget! It was followed by a small, iridescent purple hummingbird, which dove at it. The two sped away at breakneck speed. Charlie wanted very much to just follow after them—every glimpse of wings might be an exotic, or even new, species—but leaving the path to chase after animals never, ever, ended well in stories. That, too, fell under "maybe later".

By now the canyon floor was noticeably sloped upwards, and the walls had closed in to about two hundred feet apart. It was hot enough that he gave in and stuffed his cloak in his bag, then rolled up his sleeves. The tropical fruit ended in a line of bananas—ha, Kettleburn will love it! The canyon angled to the left in the middle of a date grove, narrowing as it went. Here ended anything resembling an orchard—Charlie now followed the stream down the middle of a desert canyon. Along the walls grew scruffy junipers mixed with distinctly unfamiliar bushes and cacti. Lush vegetation still hugged the stream-bed, full of animal life, all of it tempting Charlie to Just Stop and Watch.

The canyon turned back to the right, rising more steeply, and narrowed to forty feet. The ground was no longer even—he had to climb over boulders to avoid walking in the stream, which was anyway still protected by dense thickets. One more turn, and he was standing before a waterfall and a shallow pool. It was roughly fifteen feet across, at most a foot or two deep, and ringed by a few feet of sand. Looking up, he saw that the waterfall began at a point not much higher than the tree tops. Presumably there was a series of cascades as one climbed further up, splashing from terrace to terrace, but for now it was long past time to eat.

He sat down, getting out one of several sandwiches and a tin cup, into which he conjured water. 'Don't drink the water!' he thought, although it looked clean and smelled wonderful. A few birds—all unidentifiable—came over to peer down at him. He ate and sketched. He might not have met up with anything excitingly large and dangerous, but this was already his favorite place, anywhere.

Sandwich done, things put away, he ran his fingers lazily through the water. He was promptly knocked flat on his back, unable to move. He saw nothing suspicious in his peripheral vision, heard nothing moving beyond it. 'Don't touch the water, either!' seemed like such an unfair requirement for an adventure story. How had he gotten to this point, lying flat on his back in a secret canyon, alone, paralyzed?

He retraced his memories of the orchards, the holly-lined entrance canyon, the forest, the two boulders and the tracks coming into view beyond them . . . the ring of hollies. Hovering in the canopy. Passing Hagrid's hut, flying out a window . . . Why had he never looked back at the castle? Did he normally?

He was packing his bag and chatting with the house elves. There were lots of house elves, and the kitchens were enormous and full of food. He went over the exact conversation with them, word for word, several times. There was nothing remarkable about the conversation. Or, for that matter, the contents of his pack, or the halls, or the Gryffindor common room, deserted in the wee hours of the morning. It was dark in the dorm still when he left. He had most of his bag packed then. The other seventh-years were all asleep—he couldn't get a good look at them. Had he tried to look at them? Well, he didn't want to disturb them, did he?

He had woken up dressed in his pajamas. He took them off by his bed, and had a pair of boxer shorts on underneath. Then he put on a pair of trousers he had chosen the night before, a shirt, and two layers of sweater (no robes today), and then socks and boots. The cloak, he carried . . . he had set aside the trousers and shirt the night before. Before he went to bed in his bunk.

The pajamas he had put on after he got out of the shower, and dried himself with the towel. The showers were single-person stalls with benches, hangers, and a small table for your clothes, which you removed in order to shower . . . what?

The shadows were creeping up the canyon wall. The breeze was hot, and the leaves rustled in it, and he took with him into the shower both a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo. That was not a direct association, that was in the shower he usually started with his face and armpits. The waterfall met the surface of the pool, leaving bubbles beneath it on his skin and the surface of the bar of soap. He washed between his legs, all over, carefully. He sometimes masturbated in the shower, and had thought of it, but wanted to get enough sleep for tomorrow. Why? It would have been nice. His cock twitched, thinking about it, his memory paused on the image, then feel, of it, in the shower, soapy and in his hand. He pulled back the foreskin to Kettleburn would argh be interested in McGonagall's cleavage? That was interesting. Banana tree. Reaching into her cleavage, he wouldn't need a squirrel. Squirrel? Damn it!

Big eyes, it had big eyes, relative to its head. It was small, and furry, and cute, and ate bananas, maybe in the wild, too, which Kettleburn pulled from within his robes this was awful why was he hard now? The leaves he could see above him were lanceolate, not toothed or lobed, and had pinnate venation. Glabrous. Maybe waxy, to withstand the desert climate. Its bark was smooth, branches not quite round, bulging in places, forking out from crotches like limbs from a headless torso, ending in feet on the floor of the shower. The tiles were white.

They were in a squarish stall in a line of stalls, in one of the bathrooms of the boys' dormitories of the House of Godric Gryffindor, which had the colors red and gold. Charlie liked the green of the trees above him and the silver in the water, but not the children in the House of Salazar Slytherin. That was down in the . . . dungeons? The castle had many floors, and parts of it moved . . .

Charlie gave up. Something was riffling through his memories, following connections like one turned the pages of a book. He stopped fighting it, and started paying attention to what it was finding interesting, which included almost everything about the school. It spent some time on other students in general, not necessarily his friends. It brushed past quidditch and the Forbidden Forest, but watched him fly around the castle towers.

It watched girls undressing through their tower windows, poorly lit and always further away than he wanted. The girls from the House of Rowena Ravenclaw were worth a pause. He had never gotten close to a girl, physically. He had magazines hidden in his trunk, which he had taken with him to the forest to read . . . it spent a long time on the magazines, and he stayed hard as the sun's direct beams inched ever further away. It tried to see the images of his own fantasies, but that was trickier, and the memories of his thought fell apart.

It swooped in another direction, looking at his family and house back home, then followed his father's job to the Ministry and politics. It moved aimlessly, then found the muggle world, and images of London streets. Muggles built tall things with lots of glass, and made devices that . . . it was complicated. It was all complicated, and there were lots of connections to follow. Abruptly he was free. It took him a moment to realize he was looking at the sky here and not thinking about airplanes.

That had been . . . not very pleasant. Unfortunately he would have to touch the water again when he took his shoes off and waded into the pool; nothing happened. Behind the waterfall, obscured by ferns, was an arched doorway, and a few steps going up. Shoes back on, wand out with a Lumos, he saw smooth granite walls—not the local rock—and an inscription. It was not in a script he could read easily, but he got the overall feeling that it was probably English. He couldn't really expect the founders to carve things in Times New Roman, could he? He hoped it contained no important warnings. He could copy it all later.

From here, a passage went back and to the left, reaching a spiral staircase that ascended for about fifty feet before opening out onto a rocky terrace. Here was another small pool in front of him and another cascade—presumably there was one for each terrace. He would have to walk the length of each of them, though, as they sloped upwards here on the left—more or less western—side of the canyon. Climbing the waterfall looked like a bad idea, and he was sure flying would be too.

The path along the first terrace took him all the way back to the mouth of the canyon with no sign of a shortcut upwards; he had been hoping for stairs, or at least a climbable tree. These were indeed olive trees, but they unfortunately didn't grow very tall.

He had about an hour of sunlight left. He had good night vision, but he'd be under tree cover most of the way, and the moon wouldn't rise again until morning. So he'd have to make himself conspicuous with a _lumos_. Oh well—it wasn't anything he hadn't done before.

Here at the canyon's mouth he was eye-level with the tops of the nut trees. The terrace ascended more steeply as it went around the end of the hill. Here, the strip of conifers became visible in the distance.

The wind was once more like a comfortable spring day, not the hot desert breezes that followed the waterfall. The olive trees petered out, and then began what Charlie thought of as a more ordinary botanical garden—small clumps of the same tree or bush, one after the other. He couldn't identify much of any of it past the level of "maybe a maple" or "some sort of pine tree". Just give him a dragon and he'd be fine, and even with native trees he would be in good shape, but this was overwhelming!

At last he came to a passage into the hill—stairs curved gently up into darkness, hewn from the same granite as before. When he emerged once more into the desert heat back at the waterfall, he was thrilled to find he was now on the third terrace up. Unfortunately, the sun was setting, and the canyon didn't benefit very much from the twilight. He couldn't see the canyon floor from here, but he imagined it was quite dark down there.

After repeating the whole process a third time, twilight had come and gone, and he was relieved to find himself at the source of the waterfall—at least, there were no further cascades above him that he could see. The pool here was wider and deeper than the others, and as Charlie walked around it with a dim _lumos_ , he found it was fed from the mouth of a cave. The entrance was a simple arch shape, wide enough for several people to enter at a time and walk comfortably alongside the stream. It was too conveniently sized and placed, and the floor was too flat, for it to be mistaken for a natural opening—whoever had made it had simply cut the tunnel back in the direction of the spring, or maybe even moved the spring there as well.

Charlie risked strengthening his light. The passage curved just enough that you couldn't see straight down it, but it didn't go back very far before it ended in a circular room with another pool in the middle. Nothing seemed to have made this cave its home, which would be odd if it were non-magical. Charlie took his bedding from his pack and unrolled it without bothering to cast any wards. He had put off eating in order to take advantage of the light, and was now really hungry.

While he ate, he decided to put out his light for a bit. As his eyes adapted, he discovered that the water was slightly phosphorescent. In stories, he thought, it would be enough to see by, and save the author the trouble of worrying about light sources. This pool was very pretty, but Charlie still had to recast his _lumos_ in order to do anything with his pack.

It was hot in here. Not uncomfortably so, but enough that Charlie realized the water was the source of the heat. The walls were cool to the touch, the floor a nice room temperature, but he only needed to wave his hand around to tell that the water radiated heat like a warm bath. No sense sleeping with clothes on tonight. He stuffed them into his pack along with his wand and lay down, watching the dim ripples in the spring as it welled up and flowed to the cave mouth.

As his eyes adapted to the darkness, the phosphorescence seemed much brighter. Charlie had heard of magical springs that glowed, and non-magical waters of all sorts lit by luminescent microorganisms. Here on the Hogwarts grounds—where, he had to keep reminding himself, he presumably still was—the 'magic' hypothesis seemed like the simpler explanation.

There was nothing inherently magical about the Hogwarts lake, other than everything living in it. There was an awful lot living in it, though, not all of which was benign, and yet students went swimming in it anyway. He leaned over the edge and looked down, but there wasn't enough light to see much.

It was only 7 or 8 PM at this point. He wouldn't fall asleep easily, and didn't feel like writing or sketching by wand-light. Touching the water earlier hadn't resulted in anything really bad happening, right? If anything here meant him harm, he would know about it by now. This wasn't the hero stupidly straying from the path—all of today had been about finding a secret place and exploring it. It was like coming up to the castle, knocking on the door, and slipping in on your own when no one responded and you found the door unlocked. You don't just _not_ do these things. He brushed his hand in the water.

Nothing happened, other than his hand now glowing faintly where it was wet. The water _was_ the temperature of a warm bath, though, and it would be awfully nice to dangle his feet in it. He put them in up to his calves. What the hell. He slowly slid in, finding himself up to his waist with smooth rock beneath his feet. This seemed to slope downwards towards the center, which seemed reasonable enough for a spring. He walked out until he was floating, and ducked his head under. It felt wonderful. This was fine so long as he didn't drink it, right?

Eventually he found a rock near the rim that was the right height to sit on, letting him lean back until the water was up to his shoulders. Once he settled down and the spring was allowed to return to its natural currents, he could feel it swirling gently past him. It was like warm, wet hands, caressing every part of his body, welcoming him to the spring. He didn't need to go anywhere or be anywhere else.

A few feet in front of him, the glow of the water seemed to brighten, as if it were concentrating in that spot. Maybe it was some sort of column of magic—an irregularity in the flow of the spring? The water hadn't seemed to heat up, though, so it probably wasn't a precursor to a geyser. That would be a very unpleasant explanation for the uninhabited state of the cave.

There did seem to be some upwelling in that spot, though. He regarded it absentmindedly, as one watches a campfire or falling snow.

The rest of the water was suddenly dimmer, as the light sped together and began coalescing in front of him, growing into a column below the surface, then rising a foot above it. In seconds this had taken the shape of a body, meeting his gaze with an expressionless, feminine face, lit from within by the rippling, sparkling light of the magic spring. It glided towards him like a ghost, and placed its hands on his knees.

They felt like solid objects in the way a jet of water feels, pushing against your skin, except retaining their shape as they ran along the outsides of his thighs.

Charlie was paralyzed. Not with fear, although he was certainly afraid. What had felt like extreme relaxation only a moment ago was now a simple inability to move. It was like a dream where the mind wants to flee, but the body does not respond. He wanted to scramble away, or at least move a few feet away, if only to break its gaze. He could do nothing—not speak, not look away, not even close his eyes. His breath went on, his eyelids blinked, his heart raced. If this thing was what had been in his mind before, it showed no interest in doing so again now that he was here in person.

It leaned over, lifting its arms, dripping, from the water, then gripped his shoulders. In one smooth motion it pulled itself forward and up, as if weightless, and came to rest straddling Charlie's lap.

It was utterly inhuman in all ways but size and shape, which were clearly those of a girl—breasts, small but visible, soft features. Her face was inches from Charlie's. He had looked into the eyes of spiders and found them less alien than this. They were like part of a sculpture—pupil-less, unblinking, unmoving, staring into his. Only through slight differences in the refraction of the phosphorescence was their shape discernible in the darkness of the cave.

She traced the fingers of one hand along his cheek, across his lips. Her other hand moved to his lap. She wrapped her fingers around his cock, pulling ever so slightly, rhythmically.

His fear, invisible on his paralyzed face, subsided, replaced by much more obvious arousal. It seemed like only seconds before he was hard in her hand. She scooted forward and pushed his erection down between her legs, grinding forward and back on it, frictionless against her watery form.

Pushing, thrusting, squeezing his thighs between hers, she began to increase her weight in his lap. The light inside her seemed to sparkle slightly less, diffuse more evenly, grow paler. She pushed herself up, hands on his shoulders, breasts coming briefly out of the water—and fell directly onto him with the full weight of a human girl. It felt like pointing his cock at a faucet or hose and turning it on to full strength. Still frictionless, but tight, with the feel of motion in the water despite the motionlessness of her body.

The light inside her dimmed a little more. She now reminded him of a very faint ghost. Her eyes acquired pupils just before the light within them vanished entirely, and she was left no brighter than his own wet skin. He could no longer make out the features of her face, but he felt breath against his lips, and the shock of skin on skin from everywhere she touched him. She squirmed against his lap, his chest. He felt her nipples, erect, as she pressed herself against him and broke eye contact. She leaned forward, slowly drawing her cheek against his until her breath was loud and hot in his ear, and her tongue flicked it once, twice, then ran along its edge from the lobe upwards. Lips, then, followed, and teeth bit down just enough to be felt without causing pain. She slipped an arm around his back, running her fingers up the back of his neck, and with the other hand turned his head slightly until she was facing into his ear.

"Charrrrrrrr-lieeeee.

Charrrleee."

It was breathy, affectionate, and terrifying. She repeated his name, each time a little different, like a child trying out a new word for the first time. And then his attention went immediately from his ear to his cock as she squeezed it, braced herself with her arms around him and feet against the rock, tensed, arched her back, and began thrusting against him.

She moved no more than an inch up before slamming down again, bucking her hips forward to grind her crotch against his. Water was sucked in between them, then forcefully displaced again with every thrust. It rushed around the base of his cock and between her legs as she moved.

Charlie had never done more than kiss a girl, and it was only the inhuman strangeness of her previous form, and his panic at being restrained, that had kept him from coming as soon as he was inside her. He wanted desperately to thrust back, to feel the muscles tighten in his legs, flex his toes—on his own he couldn't come without at least tensing up. Now there was only sensation, and his attention was divided solely between his cock and her breath, catching, in his ear.

His own breath, growing rapid and shallow, was the only outward sign he was about to come. She matched it with her own. The pleasure rose, plateaued, burst out across his body like sheet lightning in a storm . . . hung there, suspended . . . almost more than he could bear, then pulsing once . . . twice . . . and he was coming inside her as she felt it and shuddered, slamming herself down on him, digging her fingers into his back, pushing, powerful muscles squeezing down hard around his cock, vibrating, whimpering, twitching, clinging, rigid, until muscle by muscle she let go and collapsed against his shoulder.

She stayed there, arms tight around him, keeping him inside her, until their breathing had returned mostly to normal. Then she squeezed his cock, just tight enough to tell he was still hard. She was trailing kisses down his neck, starting to move up and down again. He was still sensitive, and it was overwhelming, but still he could express nothing, and his mind was of no interest to her right now. There was pain every time she brought herself down on him, but it did not take long to fade, and soon she had resumed her previous pace, and their breath once more grew swift and shallow.

He was no longer scared of her, and had at least become more accustomed to the paralysis, even if he didn't find it erotic. So once she had started in earnest, he didn't take very long to come a second time. Again, she matched him breath for breath, spasming into her own orgasm as soon as she felt him releasing inside her.

And a third time she began, and this time was able to continue for several minutes, moving faster and faster, whimpering softly at first, then louder—it hurt his ear, but he didn't care—it was incredibly hot, and made him, and then her, come a third time.

Charlie had never come so many times in quick succession, which was not for lack of trying. Even with porn—the magical kind, with moving photos—he couldn't stay sufficiently turned on to make it that far. Not that he was thinking about this, or, really, thinking much at all.

It was only after he had lasted a good seven minutes and she had brought them both off a fourth time that she rose up and off of his cock, leaving it to the now alien sensation of not being inside anything. Standing next to him, she put one arm under his knees and the other under his back, then picked him up without any hint she was exerting herself. Her body, on a human girl of her height, would be very thin—not quite to the point of being unhealthy, but approaching it. She was far stronger than that frame should have allowed.

Dry air swirled around them. It was cool at first as the spring water evaporated, taking with it the phosphorescent sheen from their skin. As she carried him from the cave, it became an evening desert wind, perfect for lying naked under the stars. The idea that there were snow covered hills just a mile or two away seemed ludicrous.

She took him to a patch of soft sand that made up the small beach around the pool, set him down, and straddled his waist. There was only starlight here, but it was far brighter than the cave, and his eyes were adapted to near-total darkness. He was able to get a good look at the girl.

Her arms and legs were long, and her hips were narrow. Charlie estimated her to be a a few inches shorter than him, but it was hard to tell. Her hands were slender—noticeably so. She had short, unkempt, light-colored hair, nowhere more than two inches long. Though short, it looked feminine by Charlie's standards, but was still somewhat androgynous, as was her face. She was more than slightly boyish.

Her breasts were small enough that she could comfortably go without a bra—not that she would ever have a use for one. She had normal armpit and pubic hair, so that she could pass for a girl younger than Charlie, but not too much younger.

Her movement and demeanor were certainly graceful, but they were also 'off', and he couldn't read her body language. She did not seem like she would benefit from wearing clothes, and Charlie had trouble imagining her in them. She was comfortable with constant, unwavering eye contact, in a way that Charlie was definitely not. That alone was one of the most striking aspects of moving outside where he could see her.

The overall impression she gave was of something wild, not fully earthly, resembling a human yet clearly not human. She provoked desire—lust, even—but not in the way of a veela, which seemed crass by comparison. She was like the memory of dawn and sunset over the field by the Burrow, when he was very young, and the dew was on the grass and mist hung over it—when the red and golden light shone through petal and leaf, turning them into jewels that kings and goblins could only envy—when his heart had filled with longing for the world, and he wanted to go, just get on his broom and sweep over the fields, claiming the experience and memories for himself, filled with the knowledge of his own glorious being.

She was what he wanted when he was twelve thousand, fifteen thousand feet above the castle, feeling the air's thinness, wind frigid, blinding him and whipping his hair, but with the whole earth spread out before him, all the way to the gleaming ocean in the far, far distance—when he felt in his heart the bigness of it all, the sheer breadth of possibilities, the promise of the world beyond school, beyond the limitations of childhood.

She was what he wanted when he saw his first dragon in person—iridescent blue and green, graceful—not like a lizard or crocodile, but like a work of art—what a lizard ought to be. A dragon is inconvenient. It is a problem for humans, just by being there. It is enormous, powerful, and dangerous, and attempting to hide it or ignore it is monumentally difficult. But it is dangerous in the way of any animal that needs to eat to live. And it was that living—that simple, ordinary living—that made the dragon what it was to Charlie—a glorious, flying, fire-breathing, thoroughly magical _animal_ that went about the ordinary business of being an animal with as much determination as any other—the center of its own universe, to itself unexoticised, yet all the while defying the worlds of wizard and muggle alike by its sheer improbable existence.

Magic cannot create love, but love itself is magic. For most people it is the greatest magic they will ever touch, and those who realize this count themselves infinitely fortunate if they ever experience it. A nymph—for that was what this was, without doubt—has magic that pulls on you. It reaches into your heart and mind and grabs you in some of the same places that love does, and pulls in some of the same directions. Oread, Naiad, Napaea, Pegaea, Crinaea—whatever this was (and surely she was not fussy about classifications, and could not tell you), it was a minor god. Not omnipotent, not omniscient, bound to her spring—but powerful enough that even the strongest and most cunning of wizards risked becoming mere playthings, should they cross paths. And certainly she took the form of a human, had evolved, or come into existence, alongside of humans, found them interesting, even desired them—but she was not herself human, and her acts were driven by her own inscrutable purposes.

She was sitting upright, moving slowly, putting her whole weight on him, so that her clit was rubbing up and down the length of his once-again hardening cock. Her expression had not, so far, strayed beyond looking intent on watching him or on her own body and sensations. Right now it was the latter—she had broken eye contact, and stared at the cliff before her with a look of inwardly-focused concentration. It took a minute or two, but she was soon able to slip his cock back inside her, slammed herself back down, and simply ground against him.

She sped up, leaning slightly back to brace herself with her hands on his thighs. On his back as she had left him, he was only able to see her face. Her lips were parted, eyes closed, and that, by itself, was the most erotic thing Charlie had ever seen. In the cave her whimpers had been simply that—little moans and squeaks, if directly in his ear. Out here she was becoming much, much louder, until he could hear her screams echoing off the canyon walls. She switched, abruptly, to moving straight up and down, lifting herself up and dropping, squeezing and pulling on his cock with her pelvic muscles. He came almost immediately, harder and longer than before, and she wailed into the sky so loudly that it might have been heard at the castle, if the wards allowed.

She collapsed on top of him. She was light—her full weight was not so much to ever become uncomfortable like this. Eyes still closed, she touched her lips to his, and his urge to respond at last met with the ability to do so. First his lips were free to move into place and fit with hers. Then his neck was released so that he could press up against her, and then in one burst his body twitched as everything from his chest down came under his conscious control, followed slowly by his arms, fingertips inwards. Tentatively, he lifted them, embracing her, running them in awe along the smooth skin of her back and sides.

She murmured in pleasure, squirmed in response, and kept kissing him. Her arms were along his sides, hands under his back. He traced his fingertips over her shoulders, and she shivered as he brought them along her neck, then down her spine, feeling each vertebra and rib as he went. For the rest of his life, when he felt the shapes of everything beneath the skin of a lover as he caressed them, it would fill him with joy, as a reassurance that they, too, were a living thing like him, wondrously wrought of bone and blood and sinew. It made this girl—whatever she might be—seem far more real than anything else had so far.

She squeezed his cock, once, gently, as if to remind him that it was there, still hard. It twitched in response. He instinctively lifted his hips, and was unable to stop. She moaned but didn't move as he thrust up and forwards into her. Masturbating, he might have tried to draw the experience out for as long as he could, staying at the edge of orgasm. Here, doing this for the first time, drenched in magic, removed from any remotely familiar context, with the most beautiful girl he had ever seen moaning into his mouth—he thrust faster and faster until he came, and she shuddered along with him.

That seemed to have been enough to trust him not to run away, if indeed that had been her concern, as she rolled off him to his side, head propped up on one arm, looking down at him. He rolled to face her, and she pushed once more into his mind.

She communicated in images—showing him pictures, or else by pushing forward ideas. He soon realized this was simply a substitute for speech, given that they lacked a language in common, and she lacked the ability to learn modern English quickly enough to suit her.

 

She began to tell her story.


	43. Into the Glade, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Into the Glade, Part 2

 

Her story began very, very long ago, somewhere in the hills of the Greek mainland. She didn't remember how she came into being. She did not have a name—names could be useful for communicating with humans, and humans certainly gave names to gods and the like sometimes. But names were still a human thing, suitable for beings who didn't think in terms of the whole of each other in one go, who couldn't look into each other's minds. Certainly she got called various names over the years—most of them good—but, like clothes, they weren't really her problem.

She had always had her cave and her spring; in her memories the cave looked much the same as this one. Humans came to her, and she would take the form he saw now, sit on the banks, and talk to them. She looked happy—positively happy. Her face showed a whole world of expressiveness compared to what he had seen so far.

She liked people. They liked her, and they made each other happy. It had been extremely simple. Many of them were quite taken with her; and nearly all of them, men and women alike, wound up laying in her arms. She had no concept of "sexuality" as a separate aspect of social interaction—it was no different to her than smiling or laughing. If someone desired her physically, her magic leapt in response. If they did not (although they usually did), that was fine too.

Over the years, as the area was settled and converted to agriculture, more and more came to visit her. This made her happy. They treated her with respect, mostly, and became her friends. If any became obsessed, she would tweak their minds to keep things from getting out of hand.

She healed the sick in mind and body, and did so almost absentmindedly, as a friendly act when interacting with her visitors. Her neighbors were very healthy; they made better lovers that way.

In the early days, when her first language was still that of the people around her, she learned to write, spending sweet summer days lying on the grass with the local scribe, scratching the overly-complicated glyphs into the dirt and laughing.

Not everyone was friendly—in one of her earliest memories, a group of fifty men came marching up her hill, holding spears and dressed in coats of bronze. She looked into their minds and did not like what she saw, so she froze them all in place. Their leader, she left standing to watch as she simply knocked them off the hill with her magic, as one would brush crumbs from a table. She never saw any of them again, although that sort of confrontation repeated itself occasionally. Once every few generations was usually enough. She could take care of herself, and mostly life alongside of humans was good.

Charlie wondered if she had met others of her kind—other nymphs or gods? He was surprised that the answer was a clear 'yes'.

She had been very young, or at least this was one of her earliest memories. It was mid-afternoon on a hot day near the end of summer. No humans had come anywhere near her since the previous noon. This was mildly unusual.

Without her having sensed them first, a group of two women and two girls walked out of the woods at the base of her hill, and approached her spring. The leader wore a knee-length tunic, and had a bow, quiver, and three javelins strapped to her back. The other three wore jewelry and carried things, but were otherwise nude.

The second woman of the group was carrying a small wild boar—maybe six months old—that had been recently killed.

The nymph brushed across their minds, finding them like smooth stone. All four of them looked up; three of them startled, the leader amused. _That_ was exciting, possibly the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her, since she was sure now that none of these visitors were human.

She wasted no time taking human form and greeting them. All were well-mannered and pleasant. They had spent the day hunting nearby, had sensed her, and come to visit. She was delighted and thanked them.

The leader had expected to be immediately recognized, and seemed pleased not to be. The nymph had only worked it out a few days later, with the help of her thoroughly awed human neighbors—the huntress was Artemis herself. In legend she had many followers; the three with her that day were an oceanid, carrying the boar, and two nereids, which the villagers explained had been charmed by Zeus himself to appear nine years old in perpetuity. All had been allowed to leave their waters by some powerful magic of the Olympians.

Artemis had been straight and to the point—she was irritated by men, humans and gods alike. She had no interest in their romantic advances, but was continually having to reject them, often, wrathfully, and violently. Human women were too weak to be interesting. She found the goddesses of her own power to be, with few exceptions, unbearably annoying. Her followers were off-limits to her for various magical reasons. The nymph was a very pleasant surprise, and acceptable in the eyes of Artemis.

The huntress lay down her weapons and removed her tunic and sandals. She ordered her followers to cook the boar, and asked the nymph to resist. The nymph, willing to do nearly anything to please her, promised to do her best.

They wrestled on the grass. Artemis finally got the nymph thrown over her shoulder, a position from which she was having trouble wriggling free. She was carried into her cave via the stream. By the time they reached the inner pool and Artemis was up to her breasts, there was enough water to slow things down and make her slippery. She _could_ have changed to water, or used magic, but that was not how the game worked, and would have meant taking her hands off of this beautiful, naked woman who had come to see her. This way was much more fun.

When they approached the back wall and Artemis was about to go for the underwater passage, the nymph pushed herself off the rock, toppling them both over into the water. In her own spring, she was like a fish, and stronger than she was outdoors. The more powerful goddess wasn't used to wrestling in water, nor really to sexualized wrestling that was friendly and consensual. In seconds, she found herself horizontal and sideways in the water with the nymph's legs locked around her waist. She didn't need to breathe, but being held underwater was obviously something to fight back against. Unfortunately for her, she could reach neither the surface nor anything to push off against besides the nymph herself.

The nymph liked it that way, since in an effort to gain leverage, the other goddess had curled around her and resorted to grabbing her ass. She returned the favor, making herself possibly the only living thing to have done that and remained living. Well, she _had_ been asked to resist! She decided that meant resisting forceful advances, not her own urges, and managed to take advantage of her captive's flailing legs to lodge her hand firmly between them.

She was fast, and Artemis wasn't expecting her to have the temerity to try it. So she was able to work her thumb all the way in and, for about ten seconds, move it and her fingers in slow, circular motions while screams of indignation came, muffled, from below her. This, of course, left her distracted and imbalanced, and Artemis took advantage of that to escape, grab _her_ by the wrists, and start pushing into the underwater passage to the heart of the cave.

This was an increasingly difficult journey, since the nymph's power increased every step of the way. The huntress, though, was enraged to have become the hunted, and was determined to take her prey in its lair. What followed was a lengthy underwater struggle filled with thrashing and infuriating, opportunistic groping, and hampered by the close rock walls that the nymph could brace herself against. Finally the nymph was pushed backwards into the main chamber of her cave. This was at least a hundred feet across, extremely deep, with a few rocky islands and narrow shores. It was ringed by doorways, tunnels, and alcoves, all holding the nymph's innumerable secrets.

Suddenly Artemis found herself in the open water, far from the surface, shores, or any sort of firm footing. The nymph, on the other hand, had only grown stronger. This was as far as the battle could be pressed using physical strength alone. The nymph had found many clever ways to store up her magic, and by drawing on it could have kept even an Olympian pinned between her legs almost indefinitely. If Artemis had resorted to magic, or dropped her human form, it would of course have been another story, and the nymph could only have hoped to make a good show of delaying the inevitable.

This, though, was a very human sort of struggle, with very human goals, and it would have constituted cheating to change the terms just to avoid embarrassment. Besides, the nymph's fingers inside of her felt very, very good. She was far too aroused to do anything other than declare it a draw and move on to more interesting activities.

Several hours were then elided from the story, to Charlie's disappointment, as they revealed far too many secrets. But at the end of those they emerged from the cave, happy and energized, to find the boar sectioned, spitted, roasted, and waiting for them. It was an excellent meal, and after it the nymph took all four visitors into her cave for the night.

Again, Charlie was given very few details, except that the handmaidens of the huntress were apparently off-limits to men, their mistress, and many other entities, but not actually off-limits to _her_. They had been given for the night to the nymph as a reward. They were not Artemis' only gift to the nymph (and she would not say what the others were, except that she still possessed them all). They were, however, a very, very _nice_ gift.

 

* * *

 

The hunting party had left the next day. That was the only time the nymph remembered meeting others like herself. She had trouble feeling sad about that. It was a good memory. But time passed, and it had now been a long, long time since that experience.

Languages changed, people changed, clothes changed, and their religion changed. Her immediate neighbors revered her to the very end, and would have protected her with their lives should she have ever needed it. She was not immortal—merely powerful and unaging—if she were severely wounded in her human form and had ventured too far from her stream, her magic might not be enough to save her.

Once she had been regarded by all as a minor deity. Now, more and more her kind was seen as a thing of evil, because theirs was a power alien to humans, not under their control. She could make no sense of human religion—she just knew that there were those who would kill her if they could.

Humans sometimes had magic, yes, and sometimes they were descended from her kind (yes, she supposed she could have children, but had never bothered to do so), but since Artemis and her nymphs, she had seen no evidence that any beings like herself remained. She became fearful, and spent her time diffused in her spring, taking human form only in the presence of visitors, and only after looking into their minds. Her neighbors still came to see her, but they, too were fretful. She would take them into the safety of her cave, where her power was greater, before losing herself in her desires with them. The cave, in those memories, was a large complex, going far into an unearthly world of delicate stone and crystals, populated by strange creatures that lived off of magic alone.

A foreign woman had come to her spring one day. Her Greek was broken and accented, her clothes odd, her red hair exotic here. A neighboring farmer had talked to her, seen that she was magical, and decided she was trustworthy. He gave her directions to the hill, telling her to look for a beautiful girl.

The woman had introduced herself as Helga Hufflepuff.

The nymph brushed away, or simply ignored, Charlie's surprise, and continued.

Helga was simply here on vacation. Greece was beautiful, the food was delicious, and she had been collecting both recipes and cuttings of fruit trees. Meeting the nymph was an unlooked-for surprise.

The nymph became friends easily—it was natural for her. If someone meant her well and was friendly to her, she would like them, and her expectation that they would like her back was almost always rewarded. Helga had been no exception—the plump, energetic witch had been far more interesting than any visitor in ages. Certainly she hadn't really been used to talking casually to a naked woman, but she was incredibly adaptable, and got over it quickly. Talking to her was a joy. Helga was bubbly, so the nymph was too.

Helga talked about plants, and found the nymph surprisingly knowledgeable for someone who had never been more than a few hundred feet from her home. The nymph was able to discuss magic and history. She could speak, read, and write five languages which Helga could not.

Helga and her friends were building a school of magic back in Scotland, and she told the nymph all her ambitious plans for it. It sounded idyllic. The nymph liked children, and they _always_ liked her back. Children _always_ saw that she was friendly and kind, and never mistook her for any sort of malicious spirit.

Helga said that back home, sometimes magical children had a hard life, especially when they were born into non-magical families. She didn't give details, but hinted that the school was also meant to be a truly safe place. The nymph felt for them.

Then came the Hogwarts of the nymph's own imagination; drawn from Helga's memories, but still looking forward to when the castle would be built and the children arrived. She saw them all, dressed like Helga, laughing and talking with the same charming accent. They played on the moors and swam in the loch, and explored the castle—which would be grand and beautiful, and surrounded by all the wonderful things Helga would plant there. And throughout it all would be _magic_ —not just her own, but all the amazing, fascinating things that humans in their infinite creativity could devise.

And she saw herself there, with them, one of them, happy. There would be no one who wanted to hurt her, no reason to hide in her cave. And she would keep the children _safe_. Helga had no idea what the nymph could do—no human had ever known, nor had she ever tested her own limits. It was enough to say that in her element she was immensely powerful—if she could be there to help Helga and her friends, with them all working together it would take a determined god—something vastly more powerful than human wizards—to bring harm to the school.

She wanted this so, so badly. She wished with all her being that she didn't have to be stuck in these hills, bound to her stream, that she could just follow this woman home. She said so, expecting Helga to laugh and shrug at the oddities of fate.

Helga Hufflepuff did not think like that at all.

Helga Hufflepuff did not waste time worrying that something was impossible.

Helga Hufflepuff cheerfully jumped in and started working out how to make things possible. She was utterly fearless in the face of monumental tasks or insanely tricky magic. Certainly she was _careful_ , in the manner of a carpenter who measured twice and cut once—she wouldn't knowingly take irrational risks. She just whittled down her problems until their solutions no longer involved taking irrational risks.

And so she started straight in asking the nymph how her magic worked, and she got answers. The nymph was keenly self-aware, at least about that sort of thing. The nymph convinced Helga to stay in her cave for the night, instead of pitching her tent outside. They stayed up talking for hours, and it was clear Helga had some viable ideas for moving nymph, cave, and spring to Scotland in one go.

The nymph thought Helga was pretty, and her excitement and gratitude were overwhelming. She held her hand, and touched her arm, but never initiated anything, because Helga had not been interested. Charlie raised an eyebrow, and was mentally brushed away with a 'wait, let me finish'.

The next day, Helga had said goodbye with a warm hug, and continued on her tour of Greece. She promised to come back in precisely three weeks, after she had a chance to do some research, to see if the nymph was still interested.

The farmer had come up to check on her after that, and she told him about Helga's plan to move the spring, and how it was getting more and more difficult to stay. He had nodded gravely, and she had felt bad for him, and he had spent the night in her cave. Word spread, and he was followed by a steady stream of well-wishers, come to pay their respects. Some brought gifts to remember them by, some had cried. She had lain with nearly all of them at some point, and now did so once more with as many as she could. She was very busy.

Sometimes more than one arrived at once; she had them all join each other, there in the cave, in the water, on the grass under the sun or stars. She was a goddess, and she had unfailingly treated them with the utmost kindness for thousands of years. _Anything_ was okay if she asked them to do it, and she never hesitated to ask, if they all desired _her_. She dearly loved having more than one lover at a time—she would take as many as she could, and it had always been wonderful, because she was able to help everyone past their reservations and differences.

Charlie wondered how forcibly she "helped" them. She was confused, and moved on.

On the morning when Helga was due to arrive, she had shoo-ed people out of her cave, explaining that she had to meet with someone, and that she was not to be disturbed today, but that she wouldn't leave without warning them, and someone should come check on her tomorrow. And Helga had arrived on schedule, and asked the nymph a bunch of probing, careful questions, trying to make sure they both really wanted this. Then she set about measuring the extent of the underground caverns and spring, casting a water-breathing spell and having the nymph give her a tour. Helga was determined to keep it all intact for her friend, and in fact did not think it could safely be moved any other way. When they had arrived back at the surface, Helga went straight to the base of the hill and began her work.

She conjured enormous walls of charmed stone in a ring extending far from the hill, leaving gaps in places for the last visitors. She had spent many days on it, with the nymph sending visitors away the whole time. When she was done, Helga asked once more if the nymph really wanted this. Once more, she said she did. They agreed on a date; the final ritual would take place in ten days time. Helga fetched a farmer for her, and departed to finish the work on the Hogwarts side.

The nymph had never explicitly asked for anyone to come to her or to bring her anything, but she felt after all this time it was probably okay. She told the man to summon everyone he could find who had ever met her, and for them to bring everything they would need to stay for nine days and nights.

It was like watching a conductor of a two-hundred piece symphony of human desires. They brought tables of food, wine, tents, blankets, instruments—Charlie had never seen or imagined anything like it, nor had she. And she knew them all, and would miss them all. She wanted very badly for them all to be happy and to think well of her. She was sweet and earnest, and her spirit sung with joy.

Charlie only understood some of what followed. She was in all their minds at once, watching, talking, making requests (which were never denied), changing things as she thought necessary. If they desired her, they were included, without respect to age or marital status or _any_ other human consideration; all she knew or cared about was that she was making them happy. Which she was, without a doubt, because she made sure of it.

The first few images had left Charlie turned on, although they had disturbed him as well. She reached over and took his cock in her hand, trying to make him happy, too, as she related her story.

The nymph had no real grasp of human notions of pacing and narrative structure. Her happy, disordered memories of orchestrating a nine-day orgy had gone on for a long time, and resulted in Charlie coming in her hand several times along the way. He had actually lost count. She had left it to dry on his chest where it landed; presumably if he had expressed any preference, she would have gone along with it, but she seemed to like having the physical evidence.

So at last the fated day arrived. The villagers had all said their goodbyes, things had mostly been cleaned up, and Helga was busily completing the wall and putting some final touches on her charms. She explained the nymph's part several times—it essentially involved channeling her power and authority through Helga, to swap an ellipse of land—from the sky to the depths—here in Greece with one on the Hogwarts grounds. Charlie watched in fascination; he was now the only living human to have witnessed one of the founders' magic so directly.

It had all gone off smoothly. Helga had been upbeat and confident the entire time, and although it clearly took a combination of knowledge, skill, and power which no modern wizard now had access to, it had looked easy when it actually happened. One moment they were looking at the rolling hills of Greece, and the next they were looking at the moors of Scotland, with the vast foundation of Hogwarts behind them.

Helga's friends—Rowena, Godric, and Salazar—had all been there to help on the other end. Charlie gasped as he saw them—a little younger than in their pictures, working together, all clearly still friends. They had greeted both Helga and the nymph warmly. She had giggled at their reactions to a naked woman, regarding it all as the charming shyness of foreigners who would soon get over it.

At first everything was wonderful. Her hill and spring were a ways from the castle—technically not any further than they were now—but there was no forest there. No one had wanted to risk messing up the foundation, and anyway without the forest the grounds were visibly _big_. So she hadn't given a second thought to her distance from the school.

At first everyone had gone out of their way to be nice to her, and she had glowed in response. She learned to speak a little English (Anglo-Saxon, really; it was incomprehensible to Charlie), though not to the point of true fluency. Everyone else got used to speaking to her in pictures, and they met in the middle, linguistically speaking. Things got done.

The founders had _consulted_ her about the castle's magic, and she had been _helpful_. _Really helpful_. Charlie was surprised at how much she had contributed. He was surprised, too, that there were _many, many_ things built into the castle, at least originally, that he had never heard of—multiple swimming pools, tiny, meticulously-landscaped courtyard gardens, beautiful stonework and sculptures now presumably hidden, an aviary, a fish pond . . . it was mind-boggling. He watched in her memory as Hogwarts grew, wing on wing, floor on floor, courtyards, bridges, halls, stairs—all with their own magic, all part of the castle's magic, all far more complicated than he could have imagined.

When she had first arrived, she had been about as sexually satisfied as it was conceivably possible for anyone or anything to be. Far more than she had ever been before, in fact. It left her free of distractions, so it was just as well that no one had seemed interested in her then. Oh, everyone clearly saw she was pretty, but pretty in a human sort of way, not like a goddess. She hadn't paid any attention, since she was busy being excited about things like the insanely complex interplays between architecture and wards.

She had arrived in the summer. The fall leaves were beautiful, as were the winter snows which followed. Spring came. She was beginning to feel antsy.

A nymph can't effectively masturbate. Oh, they can get themselves more and more turned on, and they certainly might do that, but they can't come. They need a human for that, and can only reach their own orgasm when the human reaches theirs. (Nymphs obviously would not have designed themselves that way, but didn't get to choose.)

Largely the four founders worked by themselves, building with magic in an hour what would have taken laborers many weeks. They all had families who sometimes came to visit, though, so the nymph occasionally had other humans to talk to. Rowena was widowed, with a teenage daughter, Helena, who lived in London and never visited. Godric and his wife had one son, a few years younger than Ginny, who lived with him and his wife in Hogsmeade, and played around the construction sites to the extent he could get away with it.

Salazar, too, had a wife, and a daughter and son—both in their teens—back home on his hidden island in the fens; he apparated home at night, and sometimes brought them to work with him. Salazar made sure his children were polite to the nymph, and made a point of introducing them, but it took many months before he seemed comfortable having them see her naked. In the meantime she had rolled her eyes, they had giggled, their parents had twitched. She liked the Slytherins. Charlie was stunned by this view of them; once again, she made him wait.

Helga had been through three different husbands, and had more children than the nymph had managed to keep track of. The ones who came to visit were a set of three daughters, ranging from Charlie's age to a little younger (although, if pressed, the nymph could root through her near-perfect memories and work out someone's numerical age, it was ordinarily one of those weird human things she didn't concern herself with). Helga's three daughters were intrigued by this beautiful girl on the grounds, who helped their mother so much, and who stood around naked in the snow.

And she, in turn, had talked to them in their minds whenever they had come near enough. She had a range of several hundred feet—more, if she pushed herself—and humans were very focused on verbal communication. So Helga had no idea this was going on. The girls certainly weren't going to tell her. Anyway they giggled all the time no matter what happened, so there wasn't any suspicious behavior to give them away. They could sit on a rock and watch the stones fly into place, appearing to be talking amongst themselves, all the while asking the nymph—somewhere diffuse in her spring, as unobtrusive as she could be—every sort of question about her past.

The nymph happily showed them any memories they wished, and they _loved_ it. The sex, the different fascinating people, her relationships with them, the view of the Greek countryside from her hill, the bits of the inside of her cave that weren't secrets, how she fought off hostile soldiers and hid from zealous clerics and missionaries. Mostly they wanted to hear about the sex. They thought the nymph was pretty, and they knew she would do anything they wanted, if they wanted, which they were ambivalent about. She hadn't tweaked their minds or knowingly done anything to draw them to her—she would never do that to the truly ambivalent.

What she did do, though, was ask her own curious, gossippy questions. Did they masturbate? (Sometimes. Not as skillfully as they could. She gave them some ideas.) Were there any boys they liked? (Not really, but they would enthusiastically and in detail debate the merits of any and all boys they had ever met.) What about girls? (Giggles. No conscious thoughts.) Surely, though, they had at least experimented with each other? (Shock, more giggles.) She became their close friend. They trusted each other. Anything Helga said at home, she heard about.

Charlie wondered why she bothered talking to someone, even mentally, if she could just read their minds to learn what she wanted. The founders had all had the same thought, and in fact disapproved of her riffling through anyone's memories. They had asked her not to do it to them. To her, this was like saying it was okay to make eye contact with someone so long as you didn't look at their nose. It was weird, awkward, exceedingly difficult, and showed a total lack of understanding of how conversations worked. The fact that humans did not share her method of communication was their problem, not hers.

The girls had no problem with this—they had just asked her all their questions about it at the outset, bluntly, until they were satisfied as to how it worked. And that was that. Of all the adults, though, only Salazar, the accomplished legilimens, had any sympathy for her. On those occasions he talked to her mentally, he had been entirely "fluent" by her reckoning, and a true pleasure to converse with. When she asked him about his friends, he gave a sad, sympathetic smile and shrugged. What could you do? They would never get it. Again, Charlie was surprised to see the man with a caring, human side, and again he was brushed off, this time perhaps with a touch of defensiveness on her old friend's behalf.

One day the youngest daughter asked her about privacy charms. The nymph told her everything she knew, not bothering to investigate why. She didn't _always_ nose around further, especially with good friends she knew well, with whom she needed no extra context to use mental speech.

Two days later the girls were back on their rock, talking. She, too, had been watching the construction, and had talked to three of the four founders just that morning. She saw that the girls were sitting close together, shoulders touching, looking brighter, as if something good had happened. She asked them, and got giggles, and a little embarrassment, followed by mental images of the three of them in their bedroom.

They shared a room anyway—one bunk bed and another single—and it wasn't like they had never slept in the same bed before. The youngest had always been a little closer to the nymph, perhaps out of gratitude for giving her a full share of attention, when the rest of the world paid more to her older sisters. Or maybe she just felt some kinship. (The nymph, for her part, never cared _why_ someone liked her—it just meant that the world was as it should be, and _that_ didn't require second-guessing.) The youngest had teased her sisters for some time now about the nymph's questions about experimenting with each other. The other two had responded, coming up with more and more graphic scenarios to joke about. They thought it was _hilarious_. They had hundreds of scenes from the nymph's memory to draw on, and those were some of the hottest out of several millennia, coming from a being who was _very_ sexually active. So the girls had plenty of material to prime their imaginations.

The youngest took to going nude when in the privacy of her bedroom, in imitation of her friend. She teased her sisters about wearing pajamas on hot summer nights, and sometimes about wearing clothes if they didn't have to. (Unbeknownst to the youngest, this had sometimes had the effect of making the older girls deeply self-conscious about particular items of clothing, so that their wardrobes become more and more constrained. The nymph could make no sense of any of this, and had not intervened.) Having done without clothes at night, she took it a step further, becoming more and more obvious about masturbating, talking to the others all the while and making herself incredibly turned on by it.

They _were_ close sisters. They would never tell on each other, or do something that actually upset the others. They were too comfortable with each other to really be bothered by the youngest, especially as she went very gradually, making sure boundaries had already moved on before pushing further. So eventually they just watched her openly, before getting themselves off quietly under the covers.

One night one of them took the teasing just a little further, and another called a bluff a little more brazenly than before, and the third egged the other two on with a little more supportive enthusiasm than she had heretofore expressed, and it was enough. From then on, the three of them wound up in the same bed night upon night, acting out everything the nymph could suggest.

And she _did_ make suggestions. Not requests, not orders, not any sort of messing with their heads. Just sharing her own experiences. She was thrilled for them, because they were all so much closer now, and simply overflowed with infectious joy and energy. Sure, she wished _someone_ would come for her, but she never complained for fear of pressuring someone, and in any event, overall her life was quite good.

Helga never noticed anything odd about her daughters' good moods. She, too, was not one to second-guess happiness, a trait the nymph had deep respect for. The time came, though, in the second December of her time there, when the girls had not come to visit for several days, and the four founders had all found various reasons to stay out of her range. She was attentive enough to be mildly worried, but had no idea what might be wrong.

It was a cold night, and there was snow on the ground. The nymph had retreated to her spring, which was then and had always been as magically warm as it is now. She felt the youngest girl approaching at a run, her distress palpable as she did her best to get the nymph's attention—she was screaming and crying in her mind. The nymph was horrified, and shot from the cave in her figure of water, casting warmth in the girl's direction and throwing up every ward she knew behind her, until the girl had collapsed in the mouth of the cave. The nymph, at last taking human form, carried her in the rest of the way.

The girl seemed inconsolable, even in her arms. Unsure about her privacy magic, the nymph swept her up once more, told her to hold her breath, and swam with her further back into the cave. Helga might have been able to move the hill, but she had used the nymph's own power to do it. Apollo himself would have a hard time getting at anything all the way in here, if the nymph were determined to protect it. The girl was as safe now as she could possibly be.

She was wearing only a torn nightgown, had cuts and frostbite on her feet, and was on the verge of hypothermia. The nymph had never even heard of frostbite or hypothermia, but fortunately they were mild, and she was able to cure them almost with a thought. The girl, who had never touched the nymph before, was now crying against her breasts.

After a few queries, it was clear she didn't want to go over the story herself, and told the nymph to read it from her memory. She and her sisters had done that frequently when they were feeling lazy, but never before because they were too distressed by a memory.

Four days prior, in the afternoon, when they had nothing else required of them and thought their mother was at the castle, the girls had dragged their narrow mattresses to the center of the room. They had not heard their mother return to the house, and they had forgotten, or not bothered with, any sorts of privacy charms. Helga had heard something and come to investigate.

She opened the door with no warning. Her three daughters were locked in a triangle, each with their face buried in the vulva of the next, squirming, bucking, moaning. She stared in speechless horror, compounded as they failed to notice her for five, ten, twenty seconds? The girl wasn't sure. Helga had screamed, hexed them apart, put them in body-binds, conjured clothes onto them, moved them and their mattresses to their separate beds, and locked the door behind her.

The rest the nymph had filled in later from the minds of the adults -- Helga had called the others away back to Hogsmeade, where the nymph couldn't hear. There was a desperate huddled conference. Helga had asked Salazar to look in her daughters' minds; he had (correctly) explained it was almost certainly pointless, since one of the first things the nymph would have done with a friend was to make their mind impervious to legilimency. It was trivial if you were a _minor goddess_ , he explained, exasperated, and asked Helga what on earth she had expected to have happen, bringing a genuine _nymph_ to the Hogwarts grounds.

Apparently the bringing of the nymph's cave and spring had been presented to the other founders as a fait accompli, without Helga really asking them whether they thought it was a good idea. They had trusted her, and were now regretting it. At no point did any of them question that a Bad Thing had happened. When Salazar suggested that the daughters might have done it without their minds being controlled in any way, this was greeted with anger and indignation. It was easier to blame the nymph's magic than to accept the thought that mother and daughters might have genuinely divergent values.

Helga had come home and lectured her daughters at great length, or at least screamed at them. Then she cried, and wondered out loud where she had gone wrong. Finally, appearing to have a change of heart, she said she was willing to forgive them, as she knew they couldn't resist the nymph. They were forbidden to leave their room, of course, and would eventually be moved far away where they would be safe. Helga had not asked them for, nor had she wanted to hear, their version of the story.

She had taken away their shoes and warm clothes, and locked their door, opening it only to bring them food. The youngest, unable to stand it any longer, worried about her friend, and thinking the snow would muffle the sound of her escape, had climbed out the window and made a break for it.

After the memory was done the girl had stunned the nymph by pulling herself together and saying she would have to go back. She had just wanted to say what had happened, and that she thought her mother was the only one at fault, and that the nymph had done nothing wrong. But she also didn't want her sisters and herself to be an excuse for her mother to cut the nymph off from future students. So she had to go, and would probably not be coming back.

Nymphs cannot cry. They are physiologically unable to. Perhaps they were created by something who never anticipated the need, because here was a creature designed to be liked by everyone. Perhaps they spontaneously arose from the magic of prehistoric collective dreams and desires, and there was no place in those for crying women. Maybe they had possessed the ability once, but it atrophied from non-use.

For the first time in her two millennia or more of life, she was truly sad. She felt hurt and betrayed by Helga. She couldn't comprehend what had gone wrong. She was scared that no one would be allowed near her, that she wouldn't get to be part of the school at all. Maybe she would be moved again? She wasn't keen on taking her chances with the missionaries.

For a painfully long while the only response the youngest daughter got from her friend was incoherent anguish, and now it was her turn to worry and hold the nymph, whose body was wracked with the spasms of sobs that could not come.

The nymph had reluctantly sent the girl back into the night, but not without casting protective warming charms on her, and giving her every magical gift within her power to give. She could do more things than seal a mind against legilimency.

 

* * *

 

The next day Helga had stood on the castle and used an amplification charm to call her from her cave. She came. The nymph didn't need a special charm to speak loudly. She could project.

It was not really a conversation. Helga vented her frustration on the nymph, calling her names, accusing her of betrayal. The nymph, in near-incoherent rage, and forced to use regular speech, had screamed so loudly so as to be heard miles away. She was heard by wizards who knew what she was, and were afraid. She was heard by muggles, who had no idea, and were also afraid.

In her distress she fell back into the language she knew best.

The mountains echoed with words unspoken in over two thousand years, as one of the last few native speakers of Mycenaean uttered the vilest curses she knew at the cruel, deceitful woman who hurt her friends and made her own daughters cry. For a few tense hours her language was anything but dead, and the moors and valleys rang with the wailing of a goddess wronged.

By the time they both gave it up as useless, the sun was on the horizon. The castle and grounds, snow-covered and suddenly quiet, were bathed in a pale purple light. Until now the nymph had thought of this beautiful place as her new home. Now she wasn't sure.

Salazar had intervened on her behalf, and throughout the winter he and his family were the only ones who would speak to her. He relayed messages between the nymph and the other founders, cutting out anything inflammatory as best as he was able, given that he was mediating between a being who could read his mind and friends who were brilliant enough to make their own inferences. The peace was maintained.

Nymphs don't need to eat, but can do so, and enjoy the experience in the same ways humans do. Realizing this, once a week the Slytherins brought a picnic lunch to her cave, sharing their food with one who did not need it in a pointed message to everyone—nymph and the three others alike—that their conflicts were resolvable, and that the Slytherins would take no part in making it worse.

He simply believed her when she said she had not manipulated the girls, and had only offered them thoughts and memories. He understood how that worked, how knowledge could change someone. Of course it could be enough to make them rethink what was important to them! The human race would never have gotten this far if things didn't work that way. He didn't judge Hufflepuff's daughters—he saw they were sweet, clever girls, well on the way to being powerful witches, and they meant harm to no one.

He tried his best over that winter to explain the sensibilities of his human friends when it came to sex. He did it carefully, thoughtfully, explicitly, and in collaboration with his family. He never once shied away from conceding when humans were irrational, nor did he ever call into question the good intentions of the nymph. He explained how fear made some people want to control others, and why sex was such an important aspect of that. He went into details of things the nymph had, if she were to be honest with herself, heretofore avoided thinking or learning about.

He explained that sometimes one individual, however in the right they may be, cannot easily coexist with a broader society without great compromise and personal sacrifice. He respected the value of coexistence, though. It was a good thing, if it could be managed. He would do his best to reconcile her with his friends.

 

* * *

 

Spring came, snow melted, flowers bloomed.

It was a late evening in May. She had been sitting on a rock near her spring, smelling the blossoms from Helga's apple trees.

The castle was mostly finished, and they were talking about things like classes, and landscaping, and how her spring would fit into the grounds when they were done. She hoped there would still be apple trees near her.

Rowena and Godric were speaking to her again, thanks to Salazar's painstaking efforts to win them back for her. Things seemed to be improving. She had hope, and, for now, she was at peace.

Salazar's patronus, which she had never seen before or since, came to her then. A streak of light from the southern sky, bright like a flying star, fell before her in the shape of a silvery serpent. _Wake up_ , it had said in his voice. _Go to the mouth of your cave. I will soon need your help._

She had run, then, her human form unnaturally swift, and stood there nervously for a full minute more. He had used something like a portkey, then, bringing himself and seven others with him. They were children—Ron's age, Ginny's age. Each floated on a conjured stretcher, unconscious, covered in the worst burns she had ever seen. Some were barely alive. Salazar's clothing was singed, and she was afraid for him, but he waved her away, both physically and mentally, asking her to wait.

 _Heal them, if you can,_ he had said, _keep them asleep and ease their pain. Do not look into their minds until I have returned to explain._

Then he set the stretchers down and apparated away.

She stabilized them all, but she knew it might take months for them to fully recover. She could cure many things with a thought, and accelerate natural healing as well, but these children had lost too much blood, too much flesh. Far too much. She would not let Charlie see. She didn't like to remember it herself. She could ensure the natural healing would actually happen, though, which was far better than Salazar could have done on his own.

She had wondered why he didn't take them to a human healer. Maybe those weren't very good, maybe he didn't trust them? She saw later in his mind that she was simply who he had thought of first; she chose to take that as a high compliment.

She had followed his instructions faithfully. If he thought he should explain things to her himself, he probably had excellent reasons. He did not return that night. He did not return the next day. She took the children far into the cave, and stayed there with them for another night. The sun had set the next day before he arrived, collapsing at her cave mouth, haggard, exhausted, emotionally dead. He didn't resist when she carried him, too, back to safety with the children.

She lay him down, and sat placing his head in her lap. Under the circumstances, he had the good sense not to protest.

It had been pure happenstance that he had been able to do anything at all. A merchant, traveling to a far town, had gone to a pub, told stories. Another merchant was there, and remembered, and the next afternoon was in his shop when Salazar came in. The merchant had reacted nervously to Salazar's black robes, many rings and amulets, and odd mannerisms. A little too nervously. Just enough to make it worth seeing what was going on in his mind, on the off chance it was anything important. It was. Salazar had spent the next few hours frantically tracking down the traveler based on the drunken memories of other pub-goers, at last finding him, and thus learning his home town—too late!—after the sun had already begin to set.

Salazar apparated into the middle of the town square. The children had been tied to stakes, surrounded by logs, set on fire, left to burn to death as the crowd cheered—Charlie had read about it in history books. The nymph had not.

In a panic, Salazar had taken mere seconds to flatten the crowd and douse the fires. He created a simple perimeter ward—just enough to give him time to work. Stomach churning, one by one he carefully cut the children down, levitated them onto stretchers. Most were already unconscious from pain, smoke inhalation, or loss of blood; two were not. He let them sleep. The crowd, on their feet once more, was screaming, cursing him, calling him the devil.

Once he had gotten them to the safety of her care, he went back, took down his wards, and once more flattened the crowd. He held his emotion in, showed no anger, even to himself. Expressionlessly, methodically, one by one, he started stunning people. Oh, he didn't hesitate to use spells that would throw them back a few feet, but they weren't inherently lethal. The townspeople threw rocks at him, then fired arrows. He blocked projectiles easily, whirling to face their source, taking them out before the others. It wasn't a fair fight by most standards, but it was a fight. He could have slipped up and been overpowered. When the crowd broke and ran, he pursued them, hunting them down throughout the night, one by one. He cast a giant warming spell on the town square (the irony was not lost on him) and lined the bodies up there.

When he was sure no one was left conscious within a ten mile radius, he began his investigation. One by one he woke them up, read their minds, determined their part in all this. Most were bystanders, useful only for finding the true movers behind the atrocity. He found them, and was horrified.

Salazar paused in his tale, thought for a moment, and went into a tangent about, of all things, Merlin. One version of the Merlin legends has him being the child of an ordinary woman and an incubus. Whether this was true or not is beside the point, Salazar explained, and he thought it was probably untrue. In this legend, though, Merlin's mother arranged to have him baptised immediately at birth (no, Salazar couldn't clearly explain what that meant either). The point was that by working the wizard into muggle religion, he was made acceptable to muggles, but magic itself was still presented as stemming from evil.

Something similar had led to the children being burned. There were in those days no large wizarding schools in Britain—it was still a bit of a primitive place, compared to the continent. Magic was taught either in small, informal groups, or through a master and apprentice system. In this town there had been an old wizard who had taken as pupils any children showing magical talent. All here were born to muggle parents, and there had been a lot over the past fifteen years or so. A cohort of them—five—had been taught by the old man from the ages of ten to eighteen, and then the man had died.

While he was alive, he had done a lot of good for the people, and between that and fear, the town leaders had not dared to say a word against him. Once he had died, the machinations began. The children, now nearly adults, had seen which way the wind was blowing, and "found religion", so to speak. They claimed the old man had been manipulating them, and that they were now free of him. Had they not done so, they would have been ostracized—if not killed—themselves, as public opinion in the town had swung against magic for the time being. They had nowhere to go. Captive to muggle society, pressured by their families, they began to believe their own story. By the time Salazar found them, they truly thought magic was the power of evil working through them.

People's memories of the old man grew warped, and, in part due to his former pupils' stories, he was now seen as having controlled the town. The lies had grown increasingly fanciful, and even when the five former pupils _knew_ they were lies, they backed them up out of fear.

The logic behind witch-burnings never made sense to those being burned, and this event was no exception. A scenario had been concocted in which it actually seemed like the morally necessary thing to do to _burn these children alive_. Everything about it seemed like a farce, and could have passed for comedy, up until the bitter, fiery end. To Salazar's increasing horror, the more he read the minds of the people, the more it became clear that those same five young witches and wizards had been at the forefront of the movement for the burnings. They had been co-opted, become oppressors of their own kind. Or they would have, if the children had all been magical. Two of them were. The other five were muggles. It was unclear if anyone in the town had actually known this—all were so deluded, and their behaviors so strange, that it made no sense to Salazar how the children had been selected.

It didn't really matter in the end. All were just as injured, just as unable to return to their lives, just as bereft of friends and family.

When he had learned as much as he had the stomach for, Salazar was at a loss. He wasn't even sure who to be angry at, other than muggles in general and their cursed irrationality. If there had been one single determining factor—the church, the town elders, the gossip-mongers, the former pupils, the political factions that conveniently used the situation to their advantage—if there had been one key thing he could change, he would have done that. But there wasn't. It was all a tangled thicket, an impassable swamp of stupidity from which sane men could not emerge unscathed.

 

* * *

 

This is when the arguments between the founders began in earnest. Salazar's position was that muggleborns could not be trusted. There would be other wizarding schools. Let them go there. Build our own society, keep our own people safe. When new families could be integrated in, that was wonderful. But why did it have to happen at Hogwarts? Why? They had all agreed the school was to be a mighty fortress as well as a place of learning—all foresaw that the day might come when the children of magical Britain needed a sanctuary from the outside world. Why bring the danger _here_? What were they thinking?

The nymph sympathized with Salazar. She had to—she knew that she, too, was here as a refugee, and that the people of that town would have burned her alive, too, if they could. On the other hand, the muggleborn students might need protecting from their families, too. Surely the school was big enough, its magic powerful enough, that something could be worked out?

If she had been allowed to help, to mediate, to be in the midst of things, she could have stopped conflict in its tracks. _Put my spring within the castle itself_ , she wanted to say, _I can do this better than any of you. I will help the children make friends with one another. I will keep the children safe!_ She knew it would never be agreed to, no matter how much she begged or reasoned with them.

The other founders simply did not trust her. As the castle came to completion, they compromised. The landscaping had yet to be done. Helga had so much that she wanted to keep on the grounds. The nymph missed her friend, and wanted to at least be near the flowers she had planted. Humans' lives are very short. Today's drama was intense, but would be over in an eye-blink, and she would soon be left with only memories. Awkwardly, they devised Hufflepuff's Glade. It was truly a thing of beauty, breathtaking in both ambition and execution—she had reminded herself of that, seeing it through Charlie's eyes.

Charlie watched in awe at the memory of the founders, as they pushed and folded the earth like ever so much clay in a child's hand. And then Helga had brought her specimens here, and delineated their little spaces, and seen to it that still today it would conform to her vision. The canyon walls replaced the horizontal with the vertical, and much of it was within the range the nymph could comfortably walk to. She could even see the school, if she walked to the top of the hill and looked back. It would be a bit of a trek for students to get to her, but her home was now a place of beauty surpassing any she had ever seen in memories. Students would come _here_ at every opportunity. Things would be okay. She allowed herself to relax.

She had never seen Hufflepuff's daughters again. She had no idea what became of them. Salazar's visits had tapered off, too—he was busy, and more concerned with his own conflicts over muggleborns than with her problems. When he came, he seemed to think the other three had forgiven her, or at least forgotten her because he was a bigger thorn in their side. Once more he gave his familiar shrug and smile. Who knew?

 

* * *

 

The beginnings of the forest were planted that spring as well. Saplings stretched from her mountain all the way to Hogsmeade. The lake was put into its current shape. Magical animals were slowly arriving, either on their own or introduced from far away. She couldn't enter their minds—humans were special—but they were no less exciting for that. She saw her first unicorn and her first hippogriff; Charlie smiled at the memory of her delight. The grounds were suddenly _interesting_.

Godric's young son thought so too. No longer were they chasing him out of the way of flying stones. He was now exploring the woods. Godric had settled for a stern warning to avoid the nymph. "Nose beans," said Charlie, then tried to explain it to her in pictures. She looked puzzled, but happy to have him talking to her.

The boy had, in fact, come straight to her once the Glade was formed. He was then about Ginny's age, maybe Ron's. He was like a miniature version of his father—curly blonde hair, worn to his shoulders. Fearless and curious. Dignified, mostly, without ever taking himself too seriously. Fair-minded, mostly. Like all children she had ever known, he had never bought the line that the nymph meant him harm.

It was only two days after the glade was put in place—mid-June—when he came splashing up her stream, barefoot and muddy. She sent him a quick mental greeting. She wanted very badly to have another friend, but dared not push her luck. She also knew that Helga would be coming and going for the next year or more, as she moved her plants into place.

Like Charlie, he had come straight up the canyon, staring upward the whole time. He came to the end and was thrilled to find the hidden staircase. He tried climbing the next cascade directly; to Charlie's embarrassment, he went up it like a monkey, then kept going, until he was outside her cave. He stood in the pool, staring at the cave mouth for several minutes, then loudly asked if he could come in. She had sent a feeling of welcome to him, and he had found her sitting on the edge of the inner pool, feet dangling in the water.

It was dim in here; she created some light. He found her really, really pretty, and simply told her so. She smiled, pleased. It was the first outright compliment she had gotten . . . in this country, ever, actually. She told him so. He was shocked. She told him if she were Salazar, she would shrug like so . . . they both laughed.

He had then asked her something she was—to Charlie's surprise—almost never asked. He had asked why she wasn't wearing any clothes. She recalled Salazar's careful explanation of British sensibilities. They had seemed exceptionally silly to her, but she _had_ understood the part about not being able to change a larger culture without a lot of work. She asked him why _he_ thought she wasn't wearing any.

His guess, that she just had different customs, was precisely correct.

He asked many more questions.

No, the adults here hadn't asked her to put clothes on, out of a combination of politeness, fear, and an expectation she would not go along with it. No, she probably would not have agreed, had they asked—it would look ridiculous if she did, and she would feel embarrassed. Well, she wasn't human, was she? No, really, she wasn't. She looked human because somehow or other nymphs came into being alongside humans. Yes, but dogs did too, and no one makes dogs put on clothes. Yes, she _could_ wear clothes. Yes, she even owned them. Could he see? Not now, maybe later, she was private about that. Yes, she supposed that was the reverse of most humans, but didn't see how that should change things. No, it was almost never a problem back home in Greece.

His father had told him that was because she had just enchanted the people back there, and that she had enchanted the Hufflepuff sisters, which was why they had to go away. No, he hadn't gotten any details. Did she enchant them?

What did he think that meant? He wasn't sure. No one would tell him. Would she?

That was difficult. She was unsure what to say: What would fall under the girls' ideas about privacy? What about the adults? She could tell him things she did to them, but those had nothing to do with why they got sent away. Sure, that seemed okay.

She asked if enchantment meant using magic to make some change in someone directly. That definition suited him. She had organized their minds to make them unable to be read, and did various things to make them healthier and resist some other magic.

Why would that make them get sent away? It didn't—that was because of something else. What?

She explained that the girls had asked her a lot of questions about her life before coming to Hogwarts, and that she had answered everything they asked her. Now, she was at least two thousand years old, perhaps much older—no, she wasn't sure exactly—but it meant she had seen a lot of different things during her lifetime. And some of those weren't things the adults were happy with the girls seeing. Yes, she had showed them the memories like pictures.

And she supposed she had said some other things, too, that along with the memories, had given the girls ideas for things they could do that the adults weren't happy about.

So she helped get them in trouble?

Yes, but not on purpose! She didn't know the adults would react like that!

Yes, things were different in Greece. She thought it was because people there didn't expect her to act like a human, so she didn't violate their expectations and upset them . . . actually, that was the best explanation she had come up with yet. She thanked him.

So what memories had she shown the girls?

Another difficult choice, where things had the potential to go wrong in unforeseeable ways. She had talked to a lot of children his age. Her usual approach to this situation would be to carefully determine how much they actually wanted to know, and to stay within that boundary. She couldn't come up with a good reason to do things differently here.

So she asked him if he was interested in girls, and kissing, and other things like that, and he said not really. So she said everything that upset the adults was about that sort of thing. Ohhhhhh. That turned out to be enough information for now—he could safely categorize it all as 'adult things he didn't care about' and be done with it.

He asked if she would show him her cave. She said no, not now. It was one of the few things nymphs were good at saying 'no' to.

He asked her to come climbing around on the rocks with him. It had been years since a child had found her and just wanted her to play with them, and not to investigate things nymphs were particularly known for doing. It was a lovely afternoon, and let her forget all the things she was worried about.

She hadn't done anything to the boy's mind to make it resistant to legilimency. She liked the idea that someone could check and see that things were okay. At least, she _thought_ things were okay. She wanted to ask Salazar, but he hadn't been to visit her very much. In any event, Godric was not a legilimens, and was in no way over-protective of his son, who he actively encouraged to go play and explore outdoors.

She didn't see him again for several days. The grounds were large, and between that, Hogsmeade, and the surrounding countryside, he had a lot to explore. The Glade was perfect for climbing on things and splashing around in the stream. It was a good place to find wildlife, and the nice girl lived there—the one who wasn't human, didn't have a name, and was embarrassed if she had to wear clothes. So it was a near-certainty he would return.

The next time he came, she noticed him down in the nut grove, engaged in the time-honored enterprise of trying to dam the stream with rocks and mud. She decided to tease him a little. Without revealing herself in any other way, she started increasing the flow towards the dam—creating water is easy for gods and wizards alike. The stream was now overflowing the top of the dam. He rapidly added more rocks and mud, and then went and started trying sticks. She let this continue for a bit, then dropped the stream back to its regular flow, careful not to let it become completely blocked off downstream (plants and animals lived there!).

Upstream, she gathered enough water to raise the water level by two feet for a while, and held the front of it up as if blocked in by an invisible dam of her own. Then she moved this, quietly, behind him. He was engrossed in the intricacies of getting mud to stay in place, and didn't hear the sounds of the water behind him change until it was just a few feet behind him. He turned around, jumped, lost his footing, and would have fallen backwards over his own dam if hands of water had not shot out of the stream to catch him.

This was much scarier than the wall of water or the possibility of falling, and he shrieked. The hands gently set him upright, and disappeared. She wasn't going to just show herself, now—where's the fun in that?

The wall of water wasn't going anywhere. It was simply standing there, mocking his attempts at dam-building. He cast a critical eye upon it, considering its possibilities. He _knew_ it was a magic spring, so it wasn't like _he_ was going to be all surprised when it did magical things. No.

Ultimately, the natural thing to do with the standing wall of water was to wade straight into it, abandoning all thoughts of civil engineering. Now he was thigh-deep in what he could see was just a block of water. His underwear would probably itch if he got it wet. He backed out, tossed the rest of his clothes over a branch, and splashed back in again. She abruptly raised the water level to his waist, then let it start rising very slowly.

On the far corner, she made the water splash, then had a hand come out of it. She made it shake itself off like a wet dog, then wave at him. She didn't want him to be scared. He waited to see what would happen next. She added another hand, near the first. Then one behind him. He moved to the center of the water, contemplating this development. Then, slower, she made a whole ring of dozens of hands, until he was surrounded.

Charlie was impressed. She was creative, playful, and did nothing remotely sexualized. She made the water form balls that rolled along the surface and that the boy could throw, playing catch with the hands. She made the hands scoot up to him and poke him on the nose, then drop out of range before he could grab them. She squirted water at him, tried to tickle him, grabbed at his ankles.

She made the water form arches, lattices, finally a dome over him. She made little rooms with walls of water, shimmering eerily in the sun, more sophisticated than any magic fountain wizards had bothered to make, then or now. She lifted him up, let him walk on water, made stairs and second floors to her building. She made a chair for him to sit in. They were near a pomegranate tree, and the chair came close enough that he tried to reach it. She simply moved it over so that he could.

So in the end she was carrying him, naked and covered in the red juice of the pomegranate he ate, up the stream on a pillar of water, dodging or ducking under branches. She set him down all the way at the end of the canyon—on the same sand where Charlie had eaten lunch—and let the desert winds dry him off. She took her human form again, and sat down next to him.

She asked if that had all been okay, and he said it was great. She smiled, relieved. She hadn't scared him too much? No! It was exciting.

 

* * *

 

With occasional days like this, late spring gave way to the height of summer (not that seasons were perceptible in the Glade, but she could see in the distance what was going on elsewhere). The boy had lessons sometimes, and went to play elsewhere sometimes. He was the only child permitted to run around the grounds—an extremely privileged position. He knew he wasn't supposed to visit the nymph, so he maintained plausible deniability by going other places. Even his few friends in Hogsmeade never heard about her.

Once in a while Helga came to the Glade to plant a new specimen. The nymph ransacked her mind, discreetly, whenever she was in range. There were still no students at Hogwarts—the major construction was done, although most of the furnishings still had to arrive. The Founders had devised the house system. The nymph thought it was hilarious, what they did to Godric's hat. She was pleased to see in Charlie's mind that the hat still worked as designed.

Salazar stopped by, once, the whole summer. There was no real news—the other three wouldn't go along with his wishes with respect to muggleborns, and all he could see was the burned bodies of innocent children. They thought he was a snob. He thought they were reckless.

None of them discussed the nymph. It was increasingly clear that they wished to forget her—Godric's son was her only real human contact. He didn't quite realize this, but she was keenly aware of it, and tried hard both to make him happy so that he would keep coming back, and at the same time not pressure him to do so.

His friends ranged in age from a few years older than him to a few younger. They shared some lessons and generally played in the countryside in small groups. One of the older boys had been given a simple magical tent for his birthday—as far as Charlie could tell, camping out on the moors was, given the level of protectiveness of wizard parents at the time, about equivalent to his parents letting him camp in the neighbors' back yard. At least as long as he attended lessons and pleased his tutors, he was permitted to stay out overnight without much fuss or requirement to account for himself—the other boys were trustworthy, or at least enough so for Godric.

So the evening soon came when he was lying in the sand by the pool outside her cave, watching the stars come out. He didn't feel like walking home, and asked if it was okay if he spent the night here. It of course was, and he lay awake talking to her until he was ready to fall asleep. She said good night, and diffused herself back into the spring, from where she sifted through his mind while he was sleeping.

Charlie asked why she bothered to do that so much, and whether she remembered everything she found. The explanation was an image of a network of dots and lines, representing memories and connections between them. A mind, in place, preserved all those connections as actual connections, and it was easy to navigate along them. Navigation was more or less linear. She _could_ and frequently _did_ send a sort of tendril through a mind very, very quickly, and retain everything she found—it had the information a magical portrait would have, abstractly speaking, but it was like having it all in a room full of loose paper. Maybe _she_ would eventually make her own connections between the pieces of paper, and remember where she put particularly interesting bits, but mostly it was slower and more awkward than just reading the mind in place. Charlie was surprised—this was a nice, clear explanation. So did that mean she knew everything the founders did?

In terms of facts, the answer turned out to be 'yes', which was stunning. She explained that he shouldn't get too excited—she could watch him play quidditch in his memories, but that didn't mean she would be any better at catching a snitch. Fair enough. Some things, like language learning, required practice for her just as they would for him.

Sometime after midnight, winds picked up and the sky clouded over. Thanks to Helga's magic, it rained slightly less, right in this spot, in order to preserve the desert climate. Rain wasn't consistently blocked, though, and the magic controlling it sometimes permitted a total deluge. This was wholly unpredictable, so she was at the mercy of the elements. There was thunder in the distance. The temperature dropped. Then, from the far side of the hill, she heard sheets of rain coming. She was able to take on her human form just in time to gently scoop the boy up and carry him into the cave before the storm arrived. It was easy enough to keep him from waking. She took the boy back to the pool, cast a cushioning charm, and set him down.

She felt bad, since he had dug around in the sand out there to make himself comfortable. She sat down, scooted over, turned him onto his side, and lifted his head into her lap. After a while she noticed he was dreaming, and was curious about it. Watching dreams was tricky even for her, and required physical contact, but she had managed it occasionally. It had been more of a curiosity, really—she was much more interested in humans when they were awake, if only because they were usually much more interested in her, too, then.

She did something complicated—it was like the mental equivalent of her diffusing into her spring. He was in a small schoolhouse in Hogsmeade where he had lessons. There were about a dozen other children there, all of them naked. There was supposed to be a test today, and he was frantically trying to study for it from a book now incomprehensible in the dream—some combination of all his subjects. He was naked, too. Charlie laughed at the universality of that dream—even in a tenth-century one-room schoolhouse for children of wizards. The nymph was puzzled to learn it was so common now.

In any event, she had forgotten several key aspects of entering the dreams of humans. For one, she couldn't dream, so her understanding of how dreams worked was limited to her own magic for entering them. For another, she sort of merged with the dreamer's perspective, and was along for the ride. Most importantly, she would have no more awareness that she was dreaming than the dreamer had—whatever was happening would seem just as normal from her perspective. She was left with shared decision-making ability with the dreamer. This had never been a problem for her before coming to Hogwarts, for precisely the same reasons that all sorts of other things hadn't.

To her, the other students were far more interesting than the test. She looked up at them, seated at their desks, ignoring her. The girl sitting directly in front of them had wavy red hair down to her shoulder blades, and the boy had spent a lot of time looking at her back. He thought she was pretty, in a very vague sort of way, so the nymph did too, except without the vagueness. She wanted to see more, and so stood up and pushed the little desk away from her, test forgotten.

He had, over the past year, spent a lot of time ignoring the teacher while staring idly at the waves of the hair in front of him. The nymph liked touching hair, and reached out to run it through her fingers. She knew what that would feel like too, and so the dream met her expectations. Brushing the hair away exposed the girl's ear and neck.

This brought him closer to a girl's body than he had really been before. Certainly he had taken a good look at all parts of the nymph, but she had done so many non-human things that his curiosity about her was not of the same sort as it was with this girl. Touching the girl's hair was pleasant, and her neck was fascinating.

His idea of what a naked girl looked like was based on the nymph, though, so when he looked over the girl's shoulder, she had breasts and pubic hair like the nymph did; the nymph, expecting consistency, adjusted the hair to red. She was curious about the girl herself, so picked her up like a doll and set her down, sitting, on her desk. This placed her breasts directly at eye level. The boy felt weird, and vaguely uncomfortable, but for the nymph, his awkward feelings were fascinating human emotions and she wanted more of them.

Her attention was on the girl's breasts, so the boy's was too. Outside of dreams she might have made gentle suggestions with no compulsion behind them, if she were being careful. Here, a suggestion became reality, and he reached forward, running a finger over the girl's erect nipples, and then the rest of her breasts. His emotions were his own, but the feeling of skin on skin was realistic. His hands ran down her sides, thighs, knees, all the way down to her toes and back up again. He felt the inside of her thighs, brushed her pubic hair. The boy might not have been turned on by this when awake, but the nymph certainly was, so in the dream the boy had an erection.

In real life, too, she might have merely _encouraged_ someone to explore further. The dream, though, was pure wish-fulfillment, and the nymph was an innately sexual being who had been forced to suppress her wishes for over a year now. Her desire took over the dream. The girl was now on her back on the desk, head hanging over the far side, breasts visible. It was not a complicated dream.

The boy knew more or less what a girl's body looked like on the outside, from watching the nymph. She had an excellent idea what sex was like from a man's perspective, having been in the minds of many tens of thousands of them. She stepped forward, brought the boy's cock into place, then simply pushed it in. She/he barely had time to make one or two thrusts before the sensation was too much and he was coming. He had never done that in real life, and had no idea what the sensation of ejaculating was like, but the nymph did. Her body had come in real life, too, and it wanted more. In real life, in the cave, the scent of her arousal—no doubt full of pheromones and magic—was only inches from the boy's nose. It pervaded the classroom as the boy's brain incorporated it into the dream, letting it drive him on. She pushed the boy to keep going, over and over and over.

There is only so far that magic can force a human body—even a sleeping one—through orgasm after orgasm, churning out neurotransmitters, brushing away soreness, numbness, and refractory periods, subjecting it to bursts of intense pleasure at a pace beyond anything that could happen naturally. Overwhelming sensation, whether pain or pleasure, will force the mind to engage in coping mechanisms. In this case there was a mechanism far simpler than dissociation—waking up.

As he shook himself out of the dream and became sure he was awake, the boy noticed that it was dark, that he had an erection, that he was very comfortable, that his hands were still touching skin, and that the smell of sex persisted. Next he noticed that he was wearing clothes, that his head was resting on someone's thigh, and his hands were around it too. He recognized the cushioning charm, and felt a hand on his shoulder and the back of his head.

The nymph had, while she was dreaming, managed to bring the boy's face very close to her crotch, and, still groggy from the dream and incredibly aroused, pressed it further as she regained muscle control. She was still in the mind-set of the dream, doing what she desired without thinking of anything else. For her, the natural response to the boy's position was to lean over towards him, until they were on their sides facing each other. His head rested on the inside of her thigh, her other leg thrown over him, out of the way. He did what she wanted with his tongue; she removed his pants.

His cock was small and hairless, and she could fit it entirely in her mouth without any special adjustments. He was rock-hard, and his tongue was driving her crazy, but his body had simply had enough for the moment and she was unable to make him come. She lay there, whining, gripping his ass in order to push her head onto him, making frantic swallowing motions in an effort to trigger her own release through his. She added her hand, bobbed her head, used her tongue, even bit down gently, to no avail.

Twenty, thirty minutes later she had only grown more desperate. She had his head in a vice-like grip between her thighs, pinned precisely where she wanted it, leaving him barely able to breathe. His tongue kept going. In a haze of frustration, she shifted his mouth downwards from her clit, finally having him push his tongue inside as best as he was able, in and out. She grew wetter and wetter, his saliva mixing with her lubrication. He was swallowing everything, pressing his mouth hard against her, forcing his tongue to stretch so far that no amount of arousal could have overcome the pain without magic.

He began moving his tongue faster, then moving his body, thrusting his cock into her mouth. She felt his cock grow harder, heard his breathing change, his heart speed up. She pulled him in all the way and held him there, squirming in place against her lips. The moment came, her magic hooked onto it, and she nearly crushed his head, bucking her hips. His tongue was straight inside her as she spasmed, fluid rushing over it, drenching his face, filling his mouth with the taste of her. His thrusting stopped as he went rigid. His cock twitched several times and released a drop of salty liquid onto the back of her tongue.

He screamed and pushed her away, gasping for breath, then grabbed his pants and ran from the cave. She looked into his mind—he had been oversensitized past her ability to compensate, and was unable to handle the taste of her once he was no longer turned on himself. He was also deeply embarrassed. He darted off into the stairwell to the far side of the hill, and was out of her range before she thought to stop him.

The shimmering walls had appeared two days later, indicating that space had been bent around this part of the forest.

 

 _Approximately one thousand years later, Charlie Weasley walked into the Glade and splashed his fingers in her stream._


	44. Into the Glade, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Into the Glade, Part 3

 

She declined to describe the intervening millennium.

They lay there together, Charlie looking up at the sky, somewhat overwhelmed. He was embarrassed to have been turned on by every single thing that she had found arousing in her memories. He wasn't attracted to young kids, or boys. He wondered why, given that she claimed to be so conscientious, she had simply jumped him in the cave. To be fair, he was not exactly complaining.

It just seemed, after viewing all her memories, and all the improbable things people had done around her, that her idea of consent extended little further than making sure everyone came as many times as possible. There had been some pairings she had brought about, back in Greece, that surely must have caused problems later, when those involved were no longer near her—age, gender, kinship—humans had a lot of sensibilities which she had little interest in.

Apparently she had been passively watching his thoughts. She pointed out that she had been much more careful here in Scotland with the few people she had interacted with, largely because Helga and Salazar had asked her to be. But she was a deity to her farmers and villagers back home, and they either believed morality came from the gods in the first place, that the rules were different with her, or perhaps were just confused about their own ideas of morality but fiercely loyal to _her_.

Charlie had studied mythology in primary school, including the Greek and Roman versions of pantheism. Wizards were pretty comfortable with the idea of insanely powerful anthropomorphic entities, and the classic gods of antiquity with their very human doings were appealing to them. There was a reason his head of house was named "Minerva" when you would rarely find that name among muggles. But they were, well, storybook characters. And for humans, the moral of nearly all of the stories was "stay away from gods unless you want to have something unspeakably horrible happen to you."

The nymph did not like where this train of thought was going, and interrupted him. "Charlie!" She ran her finger along his cheek, turning him to face her again, looking worried. She seemed even more beautiful the longer he looked at her, and the expression on her face was heartbreaking. She did not want to spend another thousand years alone. She couldn't bear it.

It was clear she could simply force him to stay. She could probably even put some sort of geas on him to keep coming back, or to bring anyone with him that she wanted. She seemed to come to a decision, and let him know she would definitely be keeping him around for at least another day, but she would try to make sure he enjoyed it.

"I have class Monday morning. It's bad enough to be out of my bunk, but I've done that before, going out at night. If I'm not in class it will be obvious I'm missing. I would prefer not to get in trouble. Okay?"

She would think about it. For now, she led him by the hand back into the cave, and they lay down together on his bedding. She pushed him onto his back, then slid down him and breathed hot air onto his cock while running her fingers along it. He was half hard already; it would not be long before he was fully erect again. He was really tired, though, both from having gotten up so early and sleeping so little, and from everything the nymph had put him through.

"Sleep," she said, presumably pulling bits of Modern English from his mind. Then she put the head of his cock in her mouth and started doing something wonderful with her tongue. He was unable to stay awake, though, and drifted off, still hardening in her mouth.

 

* * *

 

Charlie dreamt.

 

He was back at the burrow, during the Christmas Quidditch game, except that Oliver was there too. They were in front of their goal hoop, watching Harry and Ginny high above them.

"We'll need to train him now—there's not much time left before next year," he was telling Oliver.

"He's good. He'll be ready by the first game. Let's go talk to him."

They flew up to Harry. "We need to plan for next year," said Oliver. "Come on, let's go!"

They flew out from the back yard—Charlie, Oliver, Harry, and Ginny. They were flying out across the field behind the Burrow, which was now a meadow in the height of summer, full of red and gold flowers. They were skimming it, dragging their feet, when a flash of gold flew up in front of them.

"It's a snidget, Harry, get it!"

Then another one flushed in front of them, and another, and soon all the gold flowers became snidgets and there was a large flock of them swirling away. They and the snidgets were weaving between trees, some of them landing, some taking off, but still as a flock leading them on. Then suddenly the flock veered right and passed between two enormous holly trees. Charlie knew they were leading them into the Glade, and called after the other three, but they wouldn't listen. When he tried to overtake them, his broom didn't respond.

Through the trees they came out in front of Hogwarts instead of the Glade, except the school was dwarfed by an apple tree, pink with blossoms, growing from the castle's center. It was the Yggdrasil of apple trees, he thought, as they pursued the flock of snidgets, now in the thousands, into its branches.

They were flying over a limb as wide as a Hogwarts hall, as the birds spread out evenly through the tree, hovered in place, then clung upside down and became little golden apples.

He wondered if the squirrel was there, and it was, slightly above them, looking down. It was much larger and elongated, like a python-sized serpent, woven through the branches like dragons from old Celtic manuscripts, and its red fur was as shiny as scales. Its head and the first ten feet of its body had dropped down to look at them.

"Try an apple," it said. Its voice was a little creaky, a little forced sounding, in the way of awkward, slowed-down things in dreams.

"You shouldn't take food from talking animals in trees, especially apples from serpents," Charlie replied.

"I'm not a serpent," countered the squirrel. "The nymph eats these apples. She doesn't eat the others."

"What others?"

"The fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. She won't eat them, because she doesn't want to leave the Glade."

"What are these?"

"This is the tree of life. If you eat from it you will become like her, like gods." It elongated itself further, simply growing forward to another branch, which it pulled down with it until it and the branch were a few feet in front of him. Its eyes were big and dark, looking at him. "Try an apple."

Charlie walked up to the branch, which had several of the round gold fruits hanging from it. They were still snidget-like in size and shape. Their scaly stems seemed to attach to the twigs with claws, and feathery leaves came from the top, as if the wings had migrated down to its feet when it landed. There was a lump at the bottom where the head would be. The entire fruit was no bigger than a regulation snitch—about the size of an apricot.

Charlie reached out to touch one. It was smooth like metal, and extremely heavy as well, like metal, although not as dense as gold.

"Take it. Eat it. You must eat it or you will never escape her."

He reached out and pulled on one. The twig snapped in half with a noise he didn't like, leaving the clawed end still on the branch.

He looked closely at it. The bump, its beakless head, still had eyes, open and looking at him. They blinked.

"Eat it."

Charlie screwed up his courage, and decided to get rid of the head first, like a chocolate Easter rabbit. He bit into it. Golden-yellow juice splattered onto his face. It smelled and tasted like apple, but was metallic gold in color throughout, with the consistency of a firm plum. It did not crunch. Juices ran down his chin. He kept eating. It was sweet—the best apple he had ever tasted—and was gone in four bites. There was no pit, no seeds. He reached for another, snapped it off, and ate it, too.

The three others were there, too, all standing on the huge limb, plucking and eating snidget-apples.

"Now you are like gods. Climb on my back."

The squirrel slid, or perhaps grew, until about twenty feet of it was standing lengthwise on the limb with them. It had many feet now, proportionate in size to its two-foot wide body. It reminded Charlie of Sleipnir. They all lay down on it, wrapping their arms and legs around its trunk. Charlie did the same behind them.

Its fur was very dense and smooth, more like an otter's than a squirrel's. It rose up, and he felt it grasp his wrists and ankles in its paws, drawing him around itself as it shot forward and up, winding through the branches. He saw glimpses of Hogwarts below, towers and courtyards flashing by without context. They were moving at broom-speed now, and had gone a third of the way around the tree, and most of the way up. There was a huge, brown, twiggy, leafy nest above them. They shot up past it, emerging from the tree into the sun. There was blue sky above them, and a sea of pink sloping off below.

Then down, down into the nest, which was enormous, roughly bowl-shaped, and open to the sky. It reminded him of an eagles nest, or perhaps a legendary roc. And there were red things in there, too—other squirrels, the children of the one they rode. They were dropped into the nest, landing on twigs. The giant serpent-squirrel poured itself out over the nest-edge and vanished.

They looked up at its children, standing over them. These had human faces and human body shapes—male and female—though red with fur, and walked mostly upright. They had tufted ears that stood straight up from their heads, long tails, and claws on their fingers and toes. There were at least five or six of them.

Charlie saw that his clothes were lying on the side of the nest, and he, Oliver, Harry, and Ginny were naked. One of the male squirrels looked at him and said "now you are like gods." It put a paw on his shoulder, and one of its sisters came to his other side. Together they pulled him to his feet.

The girl slid in front of him, looking into his eyes, clutching his arms in her paws. She had essentially human features, perhaps with a slightly wider, flatter nose, thinner lips, larger eyes. Her irises were wide and nearly black, making eye contact both easy and uncomfortable. She had no hair where a squirrel would not, but held her tail up and behind her head, which his mind occasionally interpreted like human hair.

She pulled him into herself, pressing her breasts against him, then leaned forward and sniffed him—his hair and neck, the corners of his mouth, then his armpit. Her ears twitched back and forth. Her claws felt like she was clinging to him, as if he were a tree. His mind fought to reconcile it all with her human face. She pushed her tail forward until he could see nothing but her face; this did not help, nor was it intended to.

She stepped backwards, pulling him with her, tail in his face, until they reached the edge of the nest. The rim rose several feet above their heads. Oliver was leaning against it, with each of his arms around one of the female squirrel-people. Charlie was dragged in their direction, and soon realized they were simply pinning Oliver in place. Not that Oliver was resisting. They were running their claws down his chest and sniffing his head. He was standing very still, precisely like Professor McGonagall had when the squirrel had gone down her shirt into her cleavage. Except in this case the squirrels were the ones with the cleavage, and they had removed his clothes instead of trying to get in them.

Suddenly she pushed him to his knees in front of Oliver, and knelt down with him, grabbing his hair in her claws, staring at him wild-eyed.

 _"No clothes are left to shed, the world lies far beneath you.  
The blue, majestic sky shall be your roof, your canopy of air!  
And you have bit the golden fruit and drunk its juice,  
Until its fire was within you. You are infinite!  
How like angels are you now, like gods! Like gods!  
You are the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals,  
Yet you look odd to us, delight us not,  
Nor does your sister. If you smile, though,  
Do as we ask, all will be well, and mirth shall find us all  
Together here until the end of days."_

And then she turned his head until his mouth was inches from Oliver's cock, and pushed until his lips touched its head. He felt a second set of hands—long, clawed fingers—pull his wrists behind his back. Oliver was soft. Charlie knew he was supposed to change that.

He parted his lips, lifted it up and into his mouth with his tongue, feeling its shape and soft skin until all four inches of it lay along his tongue. He pulled his lips over his teeth, bit down a little, pressed up with his tongue, luxuriating at the feel of it. He felt it twitch. He pushed his tongue forward and back, trying to get at the underside of the head, but the girl was pulling him forward by his hair to keep him from moving back. He moved his tongue from side to side, trying to wrap it around.

Pressed up against the roof of his mouth, Charlie felt Oliver hardening. It was amazing in its intimacy, how much he was aware of. It was growing longer, too, already past his uvula, almost touching the back of his throat. He swallowed, and it twitched, and kept getting harder.

Charlie's own cock was rock-hard at this point—this was the most erotic thing he could remember having done. He loved it. The squirrel girl had her head forward, pushing her nose in between them to sniff at the corners of his mouth. It was distracting, and he wished she would stop. He felt breath, too, near his ear on the other side, where the squirrel holding his hands was peering around to watch.

He was worried about his gag reflex, but it didn't seem to exist. He just felt pleasure, and swallowed again, and found the cock pushing downwards, too, having run out of room. His jaw was open wide—it felt like far more than an inch between his front teeth. He worried about choking, or suffocating, but that didn't seem to be a problem here either. His mouth and throat were just completely full.

It was at this point the girl pulled his head back a few inches—until the head of Oliver's cock was completely out of his throat, and he could feel it on his tongue again. And then she pushed him back, working him into a rhythm. He opened his eyes and saw a squirrel on either side of him, looking fascinated.

Oliver up to this point had not moved a muscle, presumably terrified of upsetting Charlie. The squirrel holding his hair let go with one hand, and reached around behind Oliver to push him forward into Charlie's mouth. She held Charlie in place, working Oliver into a rhythm, letting him pull out until only an inch or two remained in Charlie's mouth, then slamming him back in. It was initially uncomfortable when it hit the back of this throat, but it rapidly became so arousing he didn't mind.

He felt a paw go around his own cock, and start moving it back and forth. The squirrel wasn't very good at it, but Charlie was focused on the experience of Oliver pumping into his mouth, and between that and the squirrel he was [/very/] turned on. Soon, though, he wanted more, and the squirrel's hand was not doing it for him.

He felt multiple sets of paws lifting him up, spreading his legs, sliding someone between them. Lips touched the head of his cock and a small hand wrapped fingers around it. He pulled back from Oliver and looked down into Ginny's eyes as she smiled up at him and started moving. It was too much. He woke up.

The sensation didn't stop, though, as the nymph continued where Ginny had left off in the dream. The light was dim, just bright enough to see by.

"Uhhhh . . . did you do something to my dreams?"

He felt her in his mind, making sure she understood. Without taking him out of her mouth, she shook her head 'no'.

"Good, I think. That was the weirdest dream I have ever had." She looked at his memory of it, doing so in enough detail to force him through parts of it again. She paused in places, puzzled, but Charlie wasn't of much help. The squirrel-creature's long reference to Hamlet—based on something Charlie had memorized in primary school—was the most complicated bit, but by no means the strangest. He wasn't looking forward to seeing Ginny or Oliver anytime soon, either, and he very much hoped he could resist the urge to eat the next snitch he caught.

The nymph, still sucking on him, waved him back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He woke up the next morning outdoors, with the sky still pink and orange from sunrise, hours before direct light would reach them here. He was propped up on a rock, with the nymph straddling him, smiling. She was using one hand to cup a pile of fruit between her breasts, and with the other she was offering him an apricot. He reached for it, but she smiled more and shook her head, then held the fruit to his lips. It didn't grow eyes and blink at him, so he bit it.

It took him another full minute to realize he was hard and inside her. She had been doing something to him nearly continuously since they had met, and his mind had adapted by learning to pay attention to everything else she was doing. She was now offering him raspberries, making him take them from her own lips. Finally she reached behind him and came back with a banana. She peeled the entire thing, then held it to his lips with both hands as she started sliding up and down on his erection. She was incredibly wet; maybe nymphs always were? (Yes, she explained, apparently listening in.)

The banana reminded him of his dream, and try as he might, he couldn't help but be hyper-aware of the sensation of putting something long and round into his mouth. She was watching him intently, getting off on the sight and his response. At last the banana was done, and she offered her now sticky fingers to him. He knew what she wanted and didn't really want to give it to her, but she sped up, and soon it didn't bother him anymore.

One by one he took her fingers into his mouth, cleaning the banana and fruit juice off them. When he was finished, she put three fingers back in his mouth and started working them in and out as she started trying to make him come in earnest. It did not take long.

After she had finished shuddering against him, she kissed him, and said "thank you" out loud. The she reached to her other side, and Charlie realized that what he had taken for rocks in his peripheral vision was in fact a pile of mussels. They were on the large side, each around six inches long. One by one the nymph set them on a patch of wet sand, cooked them rapidly with magic until their shells opened, then lifted them, still hot, between them. She pulled the meat out with her fingers and fed it to him. Charlie normally didn't like shellfish, but he prided himself on his willingness to eat strange animals, and they were in fact very good.

The two of them spent the day wandering throughout the territory accessible to the nymph. They walked up to to top of the hill and looked back at Hogwarts, towers rising above the trees, distorted through the shimmering barrier. The last bit of the Glade—comprising the two terraces at the end of the canyon above the cave—was even more desert like, and full of cacti, succulents, and other plants Charlie did not recognize. The nymph knew their names, of course, often in several different languages none of which Charlie spoke.

She had been cut off from the world before the Norman invasion, before two fifths of English was derived from French. The limited English she _had_ learned from the founders and their families was very different from Charlie's, and her ability to read and write it was limited to medieval Insular script. Most books he could bring her would be hard to impossible for her to read efficiently. Theoretically she could muddle through modern Greek, if he could find things written in it. There was no perfect solution, of course—he was simply not going to find an ESL textbook printed in Linear B. Perhaps a translation spell?

The day eventually ended. He felt a lot less awkward around her, although he still thought her magic was far more manipulative than she did. She even allowed him to get some sleep, this time blessedly free of anthropomorphic squirrels, and woke him up before dawn in time to trudge back to the castle for class. She wanted very badly for him to return, and to bring friends, and he said he would try to do the first. He was pretty sure what would end up happening if he brought, say, Oliver along with him to meet her.

 

* * *

 

He returned to the castle while everyone else was still asleep. He found nothing obviously amiss nor any professors lurking around to catch him, so he got some clean clothes and headed to the shower. The weekend seemed unreal already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be a bit before the next update. This is probably just as well, after the past few chapters! And no, I probably won't be explaining anything confusing in reviews, because the risk of spoilers is too high. The past three chapters were edited very carefully, at least compared to the rest of the story, so anything confusing is most likely precisely the way I want it. Try to work it out on your own! :)


	45. An Incident in the Nighttime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie's return to Hogwarts, and what he learns in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 45: An Incident in the Nighttime

 

Monday, January 14, 1991

 

When Charlie came down to the common room on his way to breakfast, he found Professor McGonagall waiting.

Well, he _had_ been out of his bunk for the whole weekend. It was silly to think no one would notice. There was probably some ward or something that had tipped her off. Damn it. She looked _really_ displeased, too.

"Good morning, Charlie. I'm afraid you may not leave the dormitory right now." Crap, he thought, but she continued. "There have been some incidents overnight which will necessitate greater security precautions for the foreseeable future." At his puzzled look, she explained "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything right now, and you will hear more than you want to know soon enough. I will be able to tell you more when the other professors have finished their investigations. In the meantime, would you do me the favor of fetching your prefect for me?"

That really didn't seem to be about him or anything he had done. Huh. He was relieved both for that and for the chance to get away from her to where she couldn't see his face.

Fairly soon the common room was filling up with students wanting both to know what was going on, and to head on to breakfast, but the prefects had been instructed to keep them here until a professor arrived to escort them. McGonagall had left after locking them in (someone had pushed past the prefects and tried to leave anyway, but the door wouldn't open).

Twenty minutes later several house elves appeared, shocking the few muggleborn first-years who hadn't seen one yet. They didn't have any news, but they _did_ conjure some tables and send breakfast up. Food rapidly changed the atmosphere from worry to excitement. While the common room _could_ be configured to allow every single Gryffindor to meet in it at once, ordinarily it was not, and changing it around required everyone staying out of the way for two hours while McGonagall and Dumbledore fiddled and swore a lot. In short, it was pretty crowded.

So far the incident seemed to be a net plus for everyone, since being locked in meant no classes, probably. No doubt they would eventually get antsy from being cooped up, but for now they just wanted to know what had happened. (Charlie, of course, had never in the past hesitated go out a window via broom, and so had no sense of claustrophobia whatsoever. He was unusual in this respect, though.)

Speculation had settled on one of two general theories. The first was that there was something dangerous in the castle. The second was that the danger, if any, had passed, and the professors didn't want the culprits to escape or be able to cover their tracks. Fred and George looked as puzzled as everyone else, and Charlie could read them well enough that he was sure they weren't involved. Or at least, he mentally corrected himself, they hadn't done anything they [/realized/] could cause a major crisis.

After another twenty minutes had gone by, Professor McGonagall re-entered through the portrait, holding a sheet of paper. Charlie thought she still looked upset, though it was always hard to tell.

"Would you all please return to your dormitories?" she said, adding "I will be with you shortly."

This turned out to merely be a convenient way to call roll, presumably to determine if anyone was missing. The prefect came around shortly thereafter, letting them know that all Gryffindors were accounted for—three in the hospital wing from flying accidents yesterday, and the rest present in the dormitories. Apparently McGonagall had looked incredibly relieved at the end, but had not explained why, and had once again left, locking the portrait door behind her.

Further speculation held that something must have happened to students from other houses, and that perhaps some of them were in fact still missing. Charlie knew the twins could probably hide from Dumbledore himself if they really wanted to, but the average Hogwarts student wouldn't be able to hold out for a whole morning while the castle was being combed by the entire staff.

After another half hour, their head of house once more appeared, asking the prefects to help her escort the entire house to the Great Hall, and to prevent them from talking to anyone else along the way. When they arrived, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had already been seated, and Slytherin was trickling in. The Slytherins' expressions ranged from mildly curious to indifferent. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws seemed very unhappy. Dumbledore was already standing in front of the faculty table, looking quite grave. When they were seated, he held up his hand, requesting silence—students had learned that if they did not actually become silent, Dumbledore was quite capable of silencing them himself, so he usually received grudging cooperation on this point.

"I will be brief, to curb your speculation. Several students and a staff member were taken to the hospital wing this morning after being found paralyzed in the halls. Their symptoms are identical to one another's, and are consistent with the effects of a basilisk's gaze." He paused, briefly, to let that sink in. "A thorough search of the castle by the staff this morning revealed no further clues."

The hall erupted in murmurs; Dumbledore wandlessly silenced them with a wave of his hand, and continued.

"The patients can be cured, eventually, but the restorative draught requires ingredients we might not be able to obtain for some time. Until then we also cannot obtain their stories. Needless to say, this is an extremely serious matter, and if you have any information that might be at all relevant, it is imperative that you bring it to the attention of a faculty member.

Some of you may have heard legends about Salazar Slytherin leaving a basilisk behind in the school to carry out his instructions. I believe these should be considered a distraction, as any basilisk loose in the school would be extremely dangerous, regardless of who it belonged to." He allowed himself a small smile. "Nevertheless, in part because of the legends, you may be assured this is a contingency that Hogwarts staff has occasionally discussed.

We will be taking precautions that some of you will no doubt be unhappy with, but they are necessary to allow the school to continue operating safely under the circumstances. Let me be clear: Hogwarts will stay open. It has faced far worse threats than a loose monster or two."

Dumbledore then outlined his plan, which by the faces of the faculty really had been agreed upon in advance. Odd. Charlie wondered if there was a book of plans, going monster-by-monster, and whether Dumbledore would let him see it.

 

* * *

 

The precautions for dealing with a basilisk turned out to be straightforward, mostly. Students would be required to travel in groups, escorted by at least one adult.

Detection spells had been put in place. Charlie suspected these really had been in place already, and had simply failed to catch anything. This was only odd if you had no personal experience trying to outwit animals; Charlie was utterly unsurprised that a basilisk could evade Dumbledore, even without Salazar Slytherin keying it into the wards. Heck, the twins, Bill, and himself could all do it easily enough.

The worrisome part, which Dumbledore had, puzzlingly, left out, was that the victims had all been paralyzed and not killed outright. If it were really a basilisk (and he wasn't convinced it was), that meant every single one of them had met its gaze either in a reflection or through a transparent material. At least, if the legends about basilisks were true. No wizards in recent history had admitted to experimenting with them, and Charlie didn't think the centuries-old original texts were all that reliable. Charlie was pretty confident on this point, because he had read every single thing in the Hogwarts library about large reptiles.

It was that legend-like quality to the accepted wisdom that made Charlie suspicious about the roosters. Dumbledore had lifted the live-poultry rule in order to bring a number of the birds in, then set most of them loose in the halls. Supposedly more would be added as soon as they could be obtained. How was a rooster's crow supposed to hurt a magical snake? That kind of vulnerability usually turned out to be overstated, in Charlie's experience.

The only certainty was that Hogwarts would become considerably noisier and messier. The noisiness was, he supposed, the whole point, and silencing charms could be placed on classroom and dormitory doors. But it became rapidly clear that the castle had no automatic charms for removing chicken manure.

The paralyzed staff member turned out to be Mr. Filch, who was found alongside his cat, apparently chasing after a group of Ravenclaws who had been out "exploring" at night. Amateurs, he thought, having long ago learned to evade Filch and Mrs. Norris. Dumbledore had explained the school would hire a replacement caretaker as soon as possible, but under the circumstances that was going to require a background check, and until then the halls had to be scourgified by hand.

Both Eeles and Kettleburn had been instructed to cover basilisks in their next classes. Charlie was absolutely fascinated by their divergent responses: Both noted that a human handler might have been involved, both went briefly over the accepted wisdom about basilisks' gazes, and both recommended running away if at all possible. From there on, though, their approaches were very different.

Eeles discussed practical tips for detecting and escaping from monsters, with liberal use of anecdotes from his jobs at dragon reserves. He talked about how large reptiles hunted and defended themselves, and the magic-resistant properties of certain species' hides (all correct, by Charlie's reckoning). He reviewed spells and potions for augmenting one's senses, and made the class practice fighting with their eyes closed. Eeles' vision of a basilisk was of something quite big, in the same category as the dragons he was used to.

Kettleburn came to class with a ball python around his arm and a poisonous viper in a cage. He described the process for creating a basilisk, compared it to other magically created serpents like ashwinders, and asserted that despite the magical origin, basilisks were, by all accounts, basically like other snakes. He reviewed snake anatomy, letting students hold the python while he walked around the class with the viper (after stunning it and forcing its mouth open—Kettleburn was being unusually cautious!). He talked about the supposed properties and uses of basilisk venom, how to milk its fangs if you managed to subdue it, and mentioned a few shops in Diagon Alley that would be thrilled to buy it. Kettleburn's vision of a basilisk was of something small, recently hatched, and at least as adorable as the ashwinders Dumbledore had forbidden him from breeding.

 

* * *

 

Charlie would have been hard-pressed to come up with something that would distract him from thoughts of the weekend's events, but the news of the petrified students was almost adequate. By the end of the day, though, he was unable to think about anything other than the nymph.

Even if Slytherin really _had_ left a basilisk around to terrorize the school, it was nothing compared to the problems Hufflepuff's legacy could cause if anyone else had contact with her, and the decision to tell anyone else about it would be irreversible (at least, assuming memory charms were not an option). There was no question in Charlie's mind that abandoning the nymph was a bad act—she was clearly a thinking, feeling, extremely intelligent being, and she didn't in any way deserve the fate the founders had left her to.

A dragon, he thought, could easily find itself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like any large, dangerous creature, they tended to either get killed or chained up if they showed an excessive interest in humans. From the dragon's point of view this was all very puzzling, of course—you eat one human child, and suddenly there are hordes of humans chasing after you, as if you had tried to pick a fight with them in particular, when really you just wanted to curl up and take a nap. But it can't really sit down and reason with an angry mob of wizards, making the case that it, being a dragon, was a natural part of the ecosystem, that it was the _child_ who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and how if humans would just learn to co-exist with it these incidents would never happen. Well, people like Charlie would make that argument, of course, but they tended to all wind up working on dragon reserves, and the various Ministries of Magic rarely listened to them.

Really coexisting with dragons in fact involved accepting that occasionally something—or someone—that you care about might get eaten. What would it mean for Hogwarts to learn to coexist with the nymph? Accepting lots of accidents involving loss of sexual or mental autonomy? What if she got socially integrated into the school and then got scared that she would be abandoned again? And how the bloody hell would the Wizengamot, or the Board of Governors, or, Merlin save us, the _Prophet_ and _Quibbler_ react?

He certainly felt a strong compulsion to go see her again as soon as possible. Hufflepuff's Glade, sure, he would have wanted to go back to right away, even without the nymph—it was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. But the aching longing he felt about seeing her again was unlike anything he had felt before. It had to be magic. Charlie didn't resent that—he would never resent a magical creature for doing what it did naturally—but it still made him intensely uncomfortable.

Charlie wanted to ask someone for advice.

Oliver would probably just tell him to "stay the hell away from her" (and, presumably, concentrate on Quidditch). Fred and George would try to exploit the nymph to cause trouble, and she would be only too willing to help—he didn't want to think about that.

Adults were not much better.

McGonagall, he surmised, would go straight to Dumbledore, so that wasn't very interesting. He wondered what a Headmaster McGonagall would do—probably sigh a lot, go visit the nymph out of a feeling of obligation, and come up with some strict terms about visitation which would undoubtedly go horribly wrong somehow, but probably less wrong than anyone else's plans.

Dumbledore would be too trusting, too willing to give her chances. He would think like a storybook hero, too, unable to pass up something that made life much more complicated and exciting, however ill-advised. On the other hand, Dumbledore personally stood the best chance of resisting anything the nymph tried (to be fair, it would probably be unconscious magic, but still). There were rumors about the man, since he had never been seen to be attracted to women. The rumors were plausible enough that Charlie was actually tempted to go to the man on that basis alone, but he suspected the nymph's magic could override that kind of thing with barely a thought. Frustrating.

As to the other professors, most would just wonder why he came to them. Eeles would just tell Charlie to run away. Kettleburn would go there and never leave the Glade, probably using the nymph to help round out his life lists of magical birds and beasts. Charlie felt some remorse about not telling Kettleburn, actually. The discovery of the Glade explained so many mysteries that the old professor had wondered about over the years. It was just that Kettleburn would inevitably do something unbelievably reckless and disaster would follow.

No. For now, at least, this was Charlie's problem, and he would have to think about it some more before deciding to do anything.

 

* * *

 

Severus Snape stalked down the corridors of Hogwarts, blindfolded, hunting the basilisk. Behind him were Quirinius and Filius, with Erasmus bringing up the rear. They were doing a surprisingly good job of not crashing into things, thanks to a combination of charms and potions that let their other senses compensate for the loss of sight.

The four of them together were more than a match for a basilsk of any size, he was sure of it. At least, so long as Filius kept up his shield—the little half-goblin was a former Olympic duelist, after all, and had tested his shield against regular dragons in the past. And Erasmus was nearly a professional monster-wrangler, right? Just spending his days carefully avoiding dragons ought to have taught him _something_.

One of the things that it had taught him, it turned out, was to wear lots of dragon repellant. "Well, it works!" he had insisted, uncorking the bottle and offering it to Severus to sniff.

It was one of the most unpleasant things he had ever smelled, and he said so.

"Oh, come on," Eeles had replied, "you're the potions master—you work with stuff that stinks all the time, don't you?"

"Yes, but I don't go around wearing it like cheap cologne! Nevertheless, if it were a remotely good idea, I would go along with it unhesitatingly, despite the fact that I suspect it repels humans much better than dragons. I'm sure for the purposes of your former jobs it did, as you say, work, but that's exactly the problem—we're trying to _find_ the basilisk, not offend its no-doubt delicate aesthetic sensibilities."

"You have to admit, Erasmus," Filius had added, "that it hasn't exactly been tested on basilisks."

Eeles snorted. "Nothing has been tested on basilisks! There's a bloody law against breeding them in every country, and no one has seen one in a thousand years!"

"Ah, er, yes . . ." Quirinius, so far quiet, spoke up, and was apparently unprepared for everyone turning to look at him. Severus wondered what his issue was—a few run-ins with werewolves or vampires might give you some trauma, but Quirinius' whole personality had changed since he returned from his sabbatical. He had been quiet before, certainly, but Severus hardly thought introversion was pathological. What Quirinius had never shown before was social anxiety—he had always been calm, cool, confident, offering his thoughts only when asked or when it seemed absolutely necessary. And the rest of the faculty usually listened. Now it seemed like he was suddenly unused to being listened to, which was odd.

Anyway, Quirrel was continuing. "That's the Ashwinder Doctrine. It gets formulated in different ways, depending on the country, but generally the principle is that you should abstain from breeding certain dangerous magical creatures, like ashwinders or basilisks—"

"So that was why Silvanus got in so much trouble!" Eeles interjected.

"No," Severus had to explain, "he manages to get in trouble just by standing there, breathing. The ashwinder incident was just the most notorious. Quirinius, please continue?"

"Ah, thanks. So, the principle constraining experiments is that you should avoid breeding them in anticipation of something someone else might potentially do so in the future. That's partly just out of caution, but partly because you can't expect to get the same results experimenting on 'friendly' monsters as you would in a real, adversarial situation."

"What," asked Eeles, "you can't just, you know, poke it with a stick?"

"No, not unless you have some concrete, current justification for it, and even then, you first have to consider whether there is some adequate, independent source of information."

"What, like anything you learn while you're actually fighting it?"

"Precisely. You rely on various dark wizards to come along and do the experimentation for you—"

"—So the government's hands stay clean?"

Quirrel had not yet faced the full brunt of Eeles' scorn; so far he seemed to react by ignoring it. "That's one way of looking at it, certainly, although it presumes the government is not 'dark', whatever you mean by that . . . But there's also a question of whether you actually want the Ministry to be breeding its own monsters. That may seem purely philosophical, but it bothers some people, because it can get out of hand, and lead to investigations that are, well, broader than originally authorized." Eeles was nodding, and for a moment Severus saw the old Quirrel, able to find someone's areas of sympathy and use them to make his point (in this case, Eeles' own skepticism about government, or at least about the British one). "In the case of basilisks, though," Quirrel continued, "there are a number of highly regarded medieval treatises by actual basilisk breeders."

"Let me guess, one of those was by your own guy, Slytherin?"

"No, actually. Salazar only mentioned them in passing."

"So, how do you know this is his basilisk, then?" Eeles looked genuinely confused.

"We don't!" Severus cut in. "None of us are saying that. Albus specifically disclaimed belief in it, even."

"I thought he was just saying that for appearances . . ."

"While I admit," Severus said, "that the Headmaster does, indeed, occasionally play little games like that, in this case the matter is more straightforward. I agree with him. None of us have seen the basilisk, or any Chamber of Secrets, or any proof that Salazar Slytherin was involved in any way!"

"Is this some stupid house rivalry thing again?" Eeles asked, "because if so, I could go take a nap until you are all done or something."

Severus declined to take the bait. "Perhaps we should just let Quirinius finish? It sounds like he knows what Salazar actually wrote."

"Ah, thank you. He—he mentioned in a letter that his toad was probably getting bored, and then several months later started referring to something named, um, 'Daisy'. 'Dægesēge', actually."

All three of them stared at Quirrel with an 'are you serious?' look.

"Er, there's a book of some of his writings in the library."

Filius broke the silence. "Ah, how to put this . . . I think we were more surprised at the name than the fact that you knew about it."

"Oh."

"So is the legendary monster a girl, then?"

Severus snorted. "What, are you going to ask it out?" He sighed; Eeles was no fun to pick on, really. "Supposedly the males have a red crest and the females don't. If we catch it and neutralize its gaze, you can see for yourself. But I'm afraid the only way to find out its name would be to ask it." After that he managed to steer the conversation back to the task at hand.

 

And so he was now out here in a blindfold, looking for a giant, deadly snake that would probably try to eat him. Albus had put him in charge, designated his team, and headed off to bed. Fine. At least he had delegated to someone competent.

He wasn't taking the lead out of some misguided pride at being put in charge—he was in fact probably the best at fighting dirty, unconventional battles, and stood the best chance of actually taking down the basilisk. Or at least he was the most likely to try. Really Quirinius was the only weak fighter—presumably Dumbledore had put him there for the experience, but right now he was almost a dead weight if anything happened.

Severus considered it an 'almost' because Flitwick had insisted that Quirrel carry a rooster.

"Well-regarded texts aside, I fear it won't make any difference," Filius had said when he suggested it. "Fawkes would probably be a lot more helpful, but we might as well take the rooster, just in case."

"Or for the sake of appearances?" suggested Eeles.

Everyone else declined to comment.

 

They were down near the kitchens. With their augmented hearing, they could make out the house elves banging around with pots and pans. Severus had rarely had call to go in there, and did not seek out excuses. Elves made him uncomfortable.

They rounded a corner and went down some stairs, putting them somewhere in the vicinity of the Hufflepuff common room. In the distance, they heard some voices, which stopped after a minute—some students were out in the halls. Not even prefects were allowed out under the current rules, and so far as he knew, the four professors were supposed to be alone patrolling the halls tonight.

Severus sighed. The students were an irritating distraction, but he was obligated to deal with them.

"I suppose letting them stay out to get petrified or eaten is not an option?"

"Why Severus," joked Flitwick, "I thought you enjoyed handing out detentions!"

The others couldn't see him smiling. "Normally I take a certain enjoyment in it, that is true. However in this case I doubt I can devise a punishment worse than the basilisk itself."

"Yes, yes, you're right. Going out into its hunting grounds at night really ought to be its own deterrent."

 

Severus and the others were too far away to be heard coming, and had anyway cast a silencing bubble around themselves. Unfortunately their stealth proved to be profoundly embarrassing in this case, as it was now obvious that the students were hiding in a broom closet, making out. Severus' magically augmented hearing brought him every moan, gasp, and whimper with complete clarity. He was grateful the others were wearing blindfolds, and couldn't see his expressions.

He didn't really want the students to see him wearing a blindfold, especially ones from outside of his house, as these presumably were. No matter that he did, in fact, have a really good reason for wearing one—dignity would win out over safety in this case. It occurred to him that the sight of the four professors wearing blindfolds would probably be quite terrifying, but what was the point of that if he didn't get to see the students' expressions? Actually the rooster would probably ruin the effect, he realized.

This contemplation ended as he reached the door. He rapped three times on it, slowly, then drawled out a practiced "Hello." He could count on everyone in the school recognizing him from that alone. "I don't suppose you have a basilisk in there, hm?" Silence. "Seeing as how you are _still alive_ , at least for now, I think it would be best to get your robes on and come with me." Rustling. "Ah, good, you _are_ still alive. Although it would have been awfully convenient for us if you had the basilisk in there, too. Pity."

He enjoyed imagining the horrified faces of the professors behind him, but didn't turn around.

They escorted the two red-faced students back to the Hufflepuff dorms. Snape attempted, briefly, using legilimency on them just to make sure they weren't covering up the basilisk after all, but pulled away immediately upon finding their memories preoccupied with the last half hour. He didn't need to know about that.

The rest of the night was a loss, basilisk-wise, although eventually Severus had the group drop the silencing bubble. Ostensibly this was to try to attract the monster, rather than walk past it without a confrontation. In reality he wanted to know if he could form an image of his surroundings from the echoes of his footfalls, which by the end of the night he could, at least sort of. This was utterly fascinating.

It was also useless for detecting chicken droppings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it has been a while since my last update, relative to my previous writing speed. Unfortunately I don't have an enormous backlog to post right now, but I do have this, and it's ready to go. The story is not dead and will not be unless I say so—I'm just working more slowly atm. :P
> 
>  
> 
> I don't always reveal jokes like this, but five points for your house if you caught the awful pun motivating the dialogue between the professors, and ten if you got most of it without looking it up. If you got it and are not an American, you get another ten, and may be very impressed with yourself.


	46. "Hunting the Basilisk"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath; joking around at the Slytherin table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 46: "Hunting the Basilisk"

 

Tuesday, January 15, 1991

 

Sirius Black had received a letter from Dora this morning which was currently making him very happy. The news that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened and a millenium-old basilisk was loose in the school was bad, of course. But sometimes a crisis was an opportunity, and this one was hilarious.

Something at the back of his mind had bothered him about the "no live poultry" rule, and this was it—it deprived the school of its best defense against Slytherin's monster. The generality of it was quite clever, of course, because it gave it the mundane sound of a city ordinance. No chickens, no open fires, no dogs off leash in the park, don't block traffic by leading your cow to market down Main Street on a Thursday. Straightforward enough, at least in a world without monsters that were vulnerable to chicken noises.

Well, apparently Dumbledore was no idiot, and had immediately suspended the rule. Actually, Dora made it sound like he had been secretly keeping roosters hidden on the grounds somewhere, just in case. Good show. Nevertheless, Hogwarts Castle was a big place, and to fully saturate it with roosters would require quite a few of them. Certainly it would take more than Hagrid could care for discreetly. And it really wasn't something the Board of Governors would spring for, either—Lucius Malfoy was _not_ going to leap at the chance to oppose Salazar Slytherin's plan to rid the school of muggleborns.

Obviously, the civic-minded thing for Sirius to do here was to help out.

He had no idea how one went about acquiring large numbers of roosters without making muggles suspicious, but it seemed like an excellent project for the day.

 

* * *

 

"No, really! And so he knocks on the door and asks, 'I don't suppose you've got a basilisk cornered in there, do you? Oh, you're still alive, I guess not, what a pity.' And they're trying to get their clothes back on before Snape opens the door on them!"

Despite the general mood of worry, the flow of gossip did not stop. Certainly, the Great Hall was unusually quiet, but word of last night's incident with Snape and the broom closet had gotten to most of Hufflepuff house by the time lunch came around, and the students were making sure to finish the job there at the table.

Over at the Slytherin table, Rissa snickered, and turned to Sandra. "You heard that, right?" Her friend nodded.

Rissa made a gesture of knocking on a door. "Hellloooo." She made her voice low, drawled out words for emphasis, and tried to sound as scornful as possible. She could do a passable Snape.

Giggling.

"I don't suppose you've got a _basilisk_ in there, do you?"

Sandra took a moment to get it, then kicked herself. "Oh. Oh! Yes. I come out every night to, uh, _hunt the basilisk_."

"I seeee. Apparently the prospect of detention with me is not enough for you. Oh, don't worry, you _will_ be punished—I'm sure I can think of something . . . suitable."

"Eep!" More giggling.

"And why is it that you can't leave hunting the basilisk to more obviously competent people, like me? Hm?"

"Wait, do you really—er, well, I kind of wanted to do it _myself_ —that was kind of the whole point."

"And did it even cross your mind that you might . . . lack any experience whatsoever?"

Sandra looked indignant, and replied loudly "Hey! I'm not inexperienced!" This got quite a few heads to turn this way, and a few muttered "I bet you're not!"s and "Suuuure"s.

Rissa-Snape continued. "Because obviously that's an appropriate activity for a girl of your age!"

"I'm not too young, either!"

"Perhaps you are not too young to get eaten, too?"

Sandra could barely keep a straight face. "Er, that's, er, a risk I'm willing to take, sir!"

Rissa-Snape sighed. "Of course it is. Well, you better come on out so I can escort you back to your dormitory."

"Oh, no, professor! You see, I _do_ have a basilisk in here with me, but it's dark in here, and you don't want to, uh, meet its gaze."

"You do? Do you have it under control? Do you need help?"

"Oh yes, it's under my control! I mean, it's not Salazar's monster, it's just a little one, I've got it right here in my hand." More snickering. "Oh, well, it's not _tiny_ , I mean, I'm sure it's a perfectly normal size for a basilisk its age . . ."

"Hm. You sound like actually _do_ think you have found one." Now Rissa was starting to lose it. "Well, hee, I think you ought, hee! I mean, I'd really like to, um . . . inspect it myself, just to be sure." She took a deep breath. "If you've got a, hee, _firm grip_ on it, and can do it without hurting yourself, try putting its, eee!, head in something far enough that no one can see it, so I can open the door!"

The other tables couldn't make out what the Slytherins were saying, other than the occasional "basilisk", but they could certainly hear the loud laughter coming from their table. The Slytherins already had a reputation for making fun of the other houses. Given the petrified students—obviously absent from their usual places at meals—and the overall somber mood, the laughter did not go over well.

After their laughter had died down some, conversation continued at the Slytherin table, but it was now nearly impossble to talk about the basilisk with a straight face. Becky Eakins tried, and failed.

"Do you suppose Salazar Slytherin really had a giant basilisk . . . cut it out! Not like that. A giant . . . basilisk . . . now I can't say it. You people are awful! Anyway, why would he leave _that_ behind?"

Sandra snickered. "I think muggleborns are supposed to be especially scared of . . . hee . . big . . . snakes."

"What, so it's unusually scary-looking? I mean, the idea of it, not that you can look at it. You know what I mean. Why not a dragon?"

Rissa looked thoughtful, then said "I think he just liked snakes."

Sandra snickered. "Maybe he thought everyone else _liked snakes_ as much as he did, and meant it as, you know, a nice thing."

"I guess," said Rissa. "Hey Oren! Do you _like snakes_?"

Oren, who, while laughing along like everyone else, had been trying very hard to stay out of this, looked up from his plate. He had a brief look of panic, as if he were being accused of something, then realized what was going on and sighed.

"Oh, fine. I'll, uh, bite. _Like snakes_ compared to what?"

Rissa wasn't quite fast enough with a comeback, and he was able to continue.

"Like, compared to giant, feathery, ominous black birds that can sort of learn to talk? Or maybe big hairy _badgers_? I bet Helga Hufflepuff thought everyone loved _badgers_!"

He was emphasizing the word, just so that it could be made out at the next table over. At first it had seemed only fair, since he was talking about them, sort of, but as it degenerated he realized it sounded like he was picking on them, which, to be fair, he was. Too late! Anyway he had a lot of generalized frustration to burn off, and this was as good an opportunity as any.

Oren kept going. "I bet she had a _badger_ of her own, that went everywhere she did, and slept in her bed with her—they like to burrow down in cozy, warm places, so it was probably in there between her legs all the time . . . I bet when she was alone she sat and stroked it, and people outside the room would hear happy little badger noises!"

The mixed looks of awe, horror, and hilarity were totally worth it.

"Oren!" Becky tried to cut him off, actually diving across another first year to put her over his mouth. Rissa laughed at Becky, but she still felt uncomfortable—she was sure some Hufflepuffs had turned around, since Oren wasn't controlling the volume of his voice very well. Did he know how loud he was?

"MMMMf, no, really! Or do you suppose she kept it in a cage, and walked it on a leash?" Becky had given him up as a lost cause at this point. "Maybe she kept _lots of badgers_. Did they all keep her warm at night, cheer her up when she was feeling . . . frustrated by Slytherin? I bet she liked to have as many _badgers_ in her bed as possible."

"Oren . . ."

"I mean, _maybe it's really amazing to have badgers in your bed_. It's not like any of you all would know, right?"

The few Hufflepuffs who had openly turned around, and had looked kind of angry, laughed and backed off a little at that, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Or maybe," Oren continued, "I'd prefer a _griffin_." Okay, now everyone was looking at him expectantly. He had a good line he had _never_ had the nerve to deliver, and this seemed as good a time as any, since he was already so far off the scale of what a normal eleven-year-old would be saying in response to being sort of picked on.

"A griffin—that's got the head and wings of an eagle, right, and the body of a lion?" Everyone nodded. "And they are supposed to be these majestic creatures, people like keeping pictures of them around and so on, there are stories about them, right?"

There were a few doubtful "yeah . . ."s.

"So that's the front half of a _bird_ and the back half of a _big cat_." He paused, letting this sink in, then took a deep breath. "So really, a griffin is just a gorgeous chick that people only care about because it's attached to a magnificent pussy."

That was all the courage he had—all his courage for several days or weeks, really—so Oren immediately looked back at his plate and tried to pretend nothing had just happened. A lot of people were trying to get his attention, maybe. He couldn't tell. He ignored them for a bit, and they left him alone. He _had_ just provided them with a rich mine of material for jokes at the expense of the other houses, and that was usually enough to keep Slytherins distracted for a while.

Erwin and Bernard looked like they wanted to say something, but were at a loss for words. He took pity on them, and tried to cover for himself a little.

"Sorry about that," Oren said.

"No, that's okay," said Erwin, "that was awesome, it was just . . ."

"A lot all at once? Yeah. I've kind of been writing some of those jokes in my head all year now, and this seemed like a good time to use them. I mean, they left me alone afterwards, so I think it was okay. At least, okay for me. I hope the Hufflepuffs aren't mad at us all now or something."

"Heh." Bernard laughed. "Don't worry about them. If they give you any trouble, the rest of us will, heh, take care of it."

Oren gave a small smile, still worried about looking too sophisticated. "I'll hold you to that!" Bernard and Erwin laughed. "It would be really nice, if it came to it, actually. I think I used up all my nerve for the year or something saying all that."

"Yeah, right," said Bernard, "you'll just have to restore it by getting some girl in your lap again!"

"Oh, Merlin," Oren said, rolling his eyes at the memory, "that was really weird. I mean, I'd do it again, I guess—who wouldn't, if they could pull it off, right? Still. You know, this has been a pretty good year—better than I expected, coming in."

"Yeah," said Bernard, "if you _expected_ to get girls in your lap, you were either crazy or keeping some secret from us."

"Uh, I don't think there's any trick to it. Huh. Maybe most of the boys our age are trying to act less innocent than they are, and I'm trying to do the opposite?"

"Wait, how innocent are you?" asked Erwin.

"How should I know! I only really have me to compare myself to, since everyone else in this house is faking it in one direction or the other."

Rissa, who apparently was able to keep track of at least four conversations at once, snorted, saying "Oren, you are _so not_ innocent. Nobody is going to forget all that from earlier, and you know we still remember that scene with Angie last fall—Mr. _Harry Potter_."

"Okay, okay, fine. But, then, wait, right! It's all your fault for leading me on."

She looked puzzled. "Huh? No, it's Angie and Sandra who lead people on, not me."

"No! You know what I mean. Encouraging me. Corrupting me. It's all your fault, since I never would have done it if _you_ hadn't set it all up."

"What, and all that about badgers earlier is my fault, too? I just put it into your brain, with magic or something?"

"Nooo! It's just, you know how sometimes you have a really good line, but it's not the sort of thing you'd ever say? Uh. I guess maybe not you. You just say stuff. But don't most people . . .?"

"Hey, I refrain from saying a few things. I don't think _Sandra_ ever does—"

"Hey!" Sandra complained, catching her name.

"Well, you don't," Rissa said, poking at her friend, "but you're also, like, trying to come up with the most offensive stuff possible and _then_ not refrain from saying it. And it looks like Oren is really good at coming up with it, I guess without really trying, right?" Oren shrugged—he had no idea how to evaluate that. "But then he tries really hard to never, ever say it, unless you get him all worked up."

"Hey, _Angie_ was the one who got him all worked up, not me!"

"Yeah, yeah. But it's like, I don't know, the bucket keeps filling," here Rissa gestured, moving her hand upwards, "until something knocks it over, and it spills everywhere."

Sandra replied without thinking. "I _bet_ it spills everywhere! . . . What?"

Becky tried to elevate the discussion a little, again. "So really, what's the deal with the basilisk? How's it supposed to work?"

"What do you mean?" asked Rissa.

"Well, it's probably Slytherin's, right? I mean, it took down Filch, Mrs. Norris, and a dozen students or whatever. A little one probably couldn't do that, right? Too hard to see it in the dark."

"I guess."

"And it's supposed to only listen to his heir, and it's supposed to get rid of muggleborns or something?"

"And blood traitors," added a boy from down the table. "So really anybody it gets from the other houses is probably a win."

Unfortunately the Hufflepuffs were still listening, and this was followed by yells of "Hey, shut it!". Each side backed up their own, and in short order wands were drawn.

Somewhere down the Hufflepuff table, a few shields went up. Technically, doing magic in the Great Hall was against the rules, but it was hardly ever enforced, since there were so many perfectly legitimate reasons to use it there. But highly visible uses, like the shields, required some sort of response on the part of a teacher.

It took about fifteen seconds before a shimmering wall appeared, separating the two tables and muffling speech between them. It was humming faintly, an indicator of the immense power that went into it. Flitwick was standing with his wand out; shield spells were one of his specialties. Dumbledore, also standing, amplified his voice, shouting "enough!"

The old wizard looked, if not angry, at least mildly irritated. "I recognize that there is a great deal of tension in the air, but I implore you to restrain yourselves. I assure you that you would not enjoy it if you forced _me_ to do the restraining." He then said something to Flitwick in a voice too low to be heard, and returned to his lunch as if nothing had happened. The shield stayed up between the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins for a few more minutes, coming down only when they had each turned back to their respective tables.

 

* * *

 

"Shields up!" Tonks had said, as soon as she saw wands drawn down the table from her. The Hufflepuffs sitting next to her didn't need convincing—they trusted her, and she spoke with authority during an obvious minor crisis. Soon there was a network of glowing barriers spreading down the table, as her housemates put up whatever protection spells they knew. In the back of her mind, she noted the wide variety of spells they had chosen, and the inappropriateness of some for the situation at hand. That was something to be dealt with later, though.

"Good. Let's keep them up until the professors notice, and maybe we can make this Dumbledore's problem without looking like we're asking for help." She had very carefully used 'we' there to get her house to go along with her, resisting her urge to talk like an auror. It was something she hadn't noticed the first time around, but Hufflepuff House really did respond better if you treated it like a team.

Once the barrier went up a few seconds later, she took down her _protego_. "Looks good. Thanks guys," she said, then quieter, "I wasn't sure that trick would work. Let's remember it for next time."

"What about in the halls and such, when the teachers aren't around?" asked a boy near her.

Tonks shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "I don't know? Do you think we should make the younger kids practice defense spells? Some of the shields people were picking just now are useless in a fight. Actually, let's talk about this later—I don't want them," indicating the Slytherins, "listening in once Flitwick gets bored." Everyone nodded in agreement.

 

* * *

 

"Well, that went poorly," said Oren, after the Headmaster had finished yelling at them. "At least he didn't blame us for starting it."

The Slytherins were not, in fact, very interested in listening in. That would have required them to actually care what the Hufflepuffs had to say to one another.


	47. One Day: Albus Dumbledore, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does Dumbledore do all day, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 47: One Day — Albus Dumbledore, Part I

 

Wednesday, January 16. The Headmaster's Suite. 5:30 AM.

 

Albus Dumbledore awoke almost three hours before sunrise to the sound of Fawkes fighting with a rooster. Despite the unexpectedness of the noise coming from downstairs in his office, it didn't take long to identify it. There wasn't much else it could be. He had, in a move that had seemed like a good idea at the time, allowed the roosters free passage past the gargoyle, and he was intimately familiar with Fawkes' various vocalizations.

"Brawk! Brk brk brk k-brawk!"

"Hssssss! Trtrtrtrrtroort! Dreeeet!"

"Krawk!"

This was accompanied by the sound of flapping wings and the rattling of precariously placed objects. Albus sat up in bed, snatched the Elder Wand from under his pillow, and amplified his voice to say "Cease!"

This worked for students, usually. It had no effect in this case.

"Droooereeet! Ptrt! Kkhkht!"

"Kruk-krawk Kr-oooo!"

"Fffffffft!" Crash.

 

The last crash was worrisome, actually, but he had no way of knowing what it might have been. The rooster was incredibly loud, too, given that the door to his bedroom was closed. Now Fawkes, being a magical bird, could certainly screech at the top of his lungs and get Dumbledore's attention without leaving his perch. But the rooster had this marvelous resonant quality that seemed to penetrate everything—there was no way anyone could sleep through that, and if any basilisks or cockatrices were around, they were surely dead, or, at least, temporarily deaf, by now. The last time he remembered being woken up by a rooster was when he last stayed at Aberforth's place in Hogsmeade at one point during the war; that bird had been loud, but not ear-splitting. He supposed he was feeling his age, and was spoiled by living high in a castle tower where his sleep had only the types of interruptions he permitted.

He sighed, stood up, threw on his bright pink bathrobe, and opened his door to head downstairs.

"*BRAWK!*"

"FEEEEEP!"

Flapflapflap, crash. This was followed by the 'Whoosh!' of Fawkes teleporting, apparently across the room, in a ball of flame.

Albus could have run down the stairs to his office, if he wanted to—he was incredibly agile for a man his age—but he honestly didn't want to find out what had just fallen on the floor, or what had caused the fight in the first place.

"BRK-BRK-BRKAWK!"

As soon as he poked his head around the corner, it became immediately obvious what the problem was. Someone had cast an engorgement charm on the rooster, which was now four feet tall and standing on his desk. It was staring up at Fawkes, who was on a high shelf on the far side of the room. The remnants of Dumbledore's latest, now-wrecked, monitoring device were scattered on the floor, along with torn papers and a spilled inkwell.

Albus paused to admire the chicken—at many times its size, it was impossible not to notice the brilliant colors and iridescence of its feathers. This was a mistake, as it heard him, spun around, and flew at him.

"KROOK!"

"Reducio!"

Flapflapflap. Returning it to its orginal size didn't interrupt its path towards his face—he rapidly followed up with a non-verbal stunner.

"Well, Fawkes, that was exciting!"

"Trrrr."

"Yes, yes, thank you for not hurting it. Hmmm. I suppose either someone thought it was a good prank, or they were actually trying to be helpful—perhaps both! I will have to ask the portraits about it later. It was certainly louder this way, wasn't it."

"Frooo?"

"I'm sure you were very brave, but no, I wasn't worried about you for a moment. You can always teleport away. Scourgify!" He looked dismayed; the ink was going to take some experimentation to get out, and it wouldn't be the fun kind of experimenting. He silently hovered all the clutter off of the floor, dropping it in a pile on his desk to be dealt with later, and headed back upstairs to his quarters.

After showering, he walked into his closet. The lamp turned on automatically. He stood there for a full five minutes, wearing only his underwear, staring a rail full of robes that would have looked identical to the untrained eyes of nearly everyone else. At last selecting one, he gestured at it with his wand—a half circle counterclockwise brought the background to the right shade of magenta, and three taps made the polka-dots a blindingly bright lime green. That would do!

He liked bright colors. He really did. But he knew he could only get away with it because everyone already thought he was crazy. On the other hand, his wardrobe choices had the side-benefit of helping to convince everyone he was crazy. That was important for a leader such as himself—you needed to make yourself seem unpredictable, and to that end lime-green polka-dots were far preferable to the random cruelty of Voldemort.

The second drawer down in his sock dresser, when extended, came five feet into the room, allowing him access to two-hundred and eighty three pairs of wool socks. It took him another three minutes to root through it until he found what he wanted. Almost no one had ever seen Dumbledore's enormous sock collection, but then almost no one had ever _asked_ to see it, either. Usually when he started talking about socks, people tried to escape from the conversation by any means available.

On his way back through his office, he picked up the stunned rooster and carried it down to the hallway under his arm. He noted that the paintings of his predecessors were all asleep in their frames—he had, of course, sent his staff around the castle to query the portraits after the incident, but was unsurprised when the effort was fruitless. Portraits endured a lot of tedium and tended to spend a lot of time asleep. A good silencing spell, combined with even a half-assed concealment charm, was usually enough to allow someone to slink past them.

He patted the gargoyle affectionately as he walked past it. It, at least, was a little more alert in responding to threats. He would have to ask the portraits about it eventually—Dippett, especially, had spent long hours fiddling with things like that.

Once the gargoyle had slid closed, he reset the permissions to keep the roosters out.

"You know, I'm beginning to see the wisdom of the 'no live poultry' rule. Hm. Well, you should get back to work, chicken. Rennervate!" The rooster, un-stunned, flew at his face again. It found itself bouncing off a shield spell; the old wizard was _fast_.

Albus declined to re-stun the rooster, and kept the shield spell up on his way down to the Great Hall. If he had been more familiar with roosters it would not have been at all surprising to him that the bird followed relentlessly after, clucking, crowing, and slamming into his shield. He entered the Great Hall through the faculty anteroom, arriving at the same time as Eeles, who was hanging up his heavy, snow-covered cloak on the wall.

"I see you found a friend."

"He woke me up, actually! Got into my office and picked a fight with Fawkes. Or at least, I assume that's what happened. Fawkes might have started it, I suppose. Anyway it's my own fault for telling the gargoyle to let them in."

They were arriving just as the Hall opened, and just as the food was appearing—only the two of them, Hagrid, and Madam Pince were usually up this early. Dumbledore let the rooster follow him into the hall. It continued pecking at his shield and ignored everything else.

"Look at that—it certainly seems fixated on you."

"It does, doesn't it—perhaps it's angry that I took the engorgement charm off it?"

Eeles just raised his eyebrows.

"Oh yes, that was how I found it. Four feet tall and standing on my desk. Made a mess of my office, too."

Eeles whistled. "How bad was it?"

"Well, it knocked everything off my desk, but I think Fawkes must have kept him contained there."

"Nice familiar," Eeles said, sitting down. "D'you suppose you can distract that thing by feeding it? Here—let me try." Eeles took a handful of granola from a bowl and tossed it onto the floor between them, calling out "heeerre, chicky-chicky!"

The rooster ignored the granola and flew at Eeles, who, with a single, graceful motion, hover-charmed it far out into the Great Hall and dropped it. It fell onto the Ravenclaw table.

Unfortunately, large birds fell from the sky onto the tables hundreds of times a meal, and the Ravenclaws didn't really look at the rooster until it was right in front of them, running down the middle of the table, stepping in the food. At other tables this would have resulted in swearing or shrieking. The Ravenclaws mostly ignored it and cleaned up after its passing in the same way that they did with owls.

Now, there _were_ owls in the Great Hall at the time, swooping around, delivering letters and packages. A Great Grey, having just risen into the air, saw the rooster coming down the table towards where it had just been. It was normally lazy, and didn't have too much of a hunting instinct, but, well, if the world was going make things _this_ easy for it . . .

It flew around in a tight circle, flapping, gathering speed, and dived onto the rooster with enormous force. The rooster was killed instantly with a bite to the neck as the owl slid down the table with its prize, getting scrambled eggs, milk, pumpkin juice, and hot oatmeal all over itself and everyone within ten feet of it. It looked distinctly pleased with itself as it got to its feet and started tearing into the rooster there on the table. Well, it _was_ time for breakfast, after all.

The professors, up at the faculty table, were not in agreement as to what to do.

"Huh," said Eeles. "I bet that's the first thing that owl has ever caught for itself."

"Nice catch, too!" offered Hagrid, applauding.

"It's like bacon, but you catch it yourself! You know," Eeles said, turning to the Headmaster, "as I understand it . . ." he looked thoughtful as he searched for words, drumming his fingers on the table. "You know, letting that thing follow you in here was exactly the sort of judgment call that gets Kettleburn in trouble all the time."

Dumbledore wasn't entirely happy with that comparison. No one had been endangered by the rooster. He supposed, though, that he really shouldn't let the owl just eat it there, in front of the increasingly horrified students. He hovered the owl and its freshly-caught breakfast up and through the mail-window, out into the snowy outdoors. Presumably it could finish its meal on the castle roof somewhere. It was a big owl; nobody would try to steal from it. He sighed.

"While that was certainly dramatic, and I think we are all awake now, unfortunately we have a limited number of roosters at the moment."

"Can't you just go buy more?" asked Eeles.

"Yes, but someone has to go out and get them. Hagrid, how did you find the ones we have now?"

"Oh, I had yer brother get 'em fer us. Evryone already thinks 'e's a mite odd, so 'e could buy up roosters an' nobody'd raise an eyebrow."

Eeles looked back and forth between the two of them. "You have a brother? And pretending to be crazy is a family trait?"

"I assure you, Erasmus, the majority of it is not an act. And Aberforth is, I think, considered merely eccentric."

"So is that the same Aberforth who runs the Hog's Head?"

Albus nodded. "Indeed. So," he said, changing the subject, "how was last night's hunting expedition?"

"Uneventful. Pointless, too, if you ask me. There's no sense having the four of us tromping around the school at night—all we catch are students out of bounds. It's overkill, for that. Can't you get your Ministry to send somebody out to do it?"

"Supposedly they will be doing just that at some point today. It was a rare event, where your friend Mr. Malfoy and I agreed on something and Cornelius Fudge did not—the Minister insisted he would send somebody over to help search. Of course, I think it's futile, and Lucius wants to leave the basilisk alone because it's a national treasure, but essentially we agree. I expect any day now we shall see an editorial in the Prophet from him insisting that Salazar Slytherin must have known what he was doing, and how it's all my fault for allowing muggleborn students to attend Hogwarts."

"So he believes it's Slytherin's basilisk?"

Albus shrugged, and, in a quieter voice, said "the actual beliefs of Lucius Malfoy are a mystery to me."

 

* * *

 

When Albus returned to his office, there was a man with a bloodhound waiting for him. The dog was sitting patiently on a leash, and, when it saw him, started swishing its tail back and forth on the floor. The man looked like he didn't want to be there at all.

"Well, at least someone is happy to see me!" He peered over his glasses at the man. "Penvro Smout, if I am not mistaken?"

"Wow! It's been fifteen years, professor! I'm impressed. How . . . ?"

"At my age, you are all a bunch of youngsters, and you look about the same to me as the last time I saw you in my office. Am I correct in believing Cornelius sent you?"

"Well, my boss didn't tell me that, exactly, but I'd believe it. I'm with Dragon Research and Restraint now—they were hoping Snotra here"—indicating the dog, who was now licking Dumbledore's hand as he held it out for her to smell—"could sniff something out."

"I admit it's worth a try. Do you need any assistance? Still know your way around?"

"Hard to forget it, sir. We'll be fine on our own. Anywhere you think I should start?"

"Hm. I'd start down by the Hufflepuff common room, cover the rest of the dungeons, and work up from there. I can't say I have much hope you will find anything, though. No offense to your nose, of course, Snotra! Hm. I need to go in that direction myself—I'll walk you part of the way down."

"Alright then."

"So, Cornelius thinks a bloodhound can do it, does he?"

"Oh, Snotra isn't a bloodhound! She's a Cardiff Dragonhound. Bred 'em to hunt the Welsh Greens, back in the 20s. Ah, don't feel bad—she won't take offense. Everybody else thinks she's a bloodhound, too. The differences are subtle, you see."

Albus didn't see, but didn't really feel like getting a lecture on the breed standard for Cardiff Dragonhounds, either, so he simply nodded, and changed the topic to Penvro's life since Hogwarts. This kept them occupied until they parted ways.

Dumbledore's actual destination was the kitchens. It was not a place he went very often—a few times a year, at most. This was partly because he didn't want the house elves to think he was telling them how to do their jobs. The kitchens were their domain, and he respected that. He could trivially have called one of them to his office for the conversation he needed to have today, but coming down here in this case was also a gesture of courtesy. He was asking for their help, not ordering them.

The entrance to the kitchens, or at least the one used by humans, was hidden by an enormous painting of a pear. Getting past it involved tickling the pear; the story behind this had unfortunately been lost to history, but everyone agreed that the painting was very old and that there was no sense messing unnecessarily with familiar castle fixtures.

The picture of the pear didn't actually squirm or react when it was tickled. The door just swung open to let you pass.

Most visitors didn't get very far past that point before being swarmed with house elves eager to be helpful; today was no exception. Albus gave them all a grandfatherly smile and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. He was here to see a particular elf.

The kitchens were, of course, enormous—substantially larger than the Great Hall itself, at least in terms of floor area. Copies of the house and faculty tables lay directly beneath their counterparts, with the actual kitchen proper sprawling out on the far side of the faculty-table copy.

Visually, the Hogwarts kitchen was dominated by a central fireplace jutting out from the wall. This was a massive brick edifice, rounded at the base like an enormous squash, and tapering into a chimney towards the top. An arched opening twenty feet across gave access to a magical inferno which Albus had never seen unlit. Visible within the flames was a complicated system of wrought-iron rails, spits, hooks, and chains. There was enough room to roast several whole oxen at one time, but at the moment it held only huge brass kettles, kept polished by the elves, gleaming in the firelight. Around the sides were a dozen oven doors, at least one of which would be open at any given time, day or night, as the elves busily filled or emptied it.

Iron, stone, brick, and brass—this was the decor of the kitchen. Lighting was an irregular combination of firelight, torches, and gas lamps, broken up and reflected by countless pots of copper and brass. These were hung high on the walls, stacked on tables, lined up on shelves, and left in great piles on the floor. After a thousand years of accumulating kitchen implements, Hogwarts had amassed an incredible collection, many of which not even the house elves knew the intended purpose of.

Throughout it all scurried the elves. They hovered food out from the storerooms in crates and bags, washed it with magic in enormous tubs of water, animated knives to chop it, made it fly through the air into cauldrons and ovens and skillets, and sent it on its way to the tables when it was time for meals.

Few places in the castle were so blatantly, overwhelmingly _magical_. Even the Headmaster's office seemed somewhat ordinary in comparison.

 

The elf Albus had come to see was named Zent, and was the closest thing to a leader among the Hogwarts elves. Zent was very old. He had been old when Albus was a student, and was ancient now. Albus found him on a throne of rags in a dark corner near the fireplace.

Over Dumbledore's tenure as Headmaster, Zent had become more and more sedentary—too frail to walk and lacking the energy to apparate, it was simplest for him to remain in one place and have the world come to him. In fact, Albus hadn't seen him move from his pile of rags in decades, and even back then it had only happened when he had been summoned to the Headmaster's office. The other elves had begged Albus not to do that again, because Zent was too proud to admit his abilities were deteriorating, and they were afraid he might hurt himself in a bad apparation. And so on those rare occasions—perhaps a few times a year—when the headmaster's duties involved contact with the elves as a group, it was now Albus who came to Zent.

The pile of rags had grown steadily over the years from a small bed to an enormous mound, bringing the old elf almost to eye level for a wizard. There in the shadows, dressed in rags of his own, it was easy to overlook Zent entirely until he moved or spoke. Zent's throne (as Albus thought of it) had inched closer and closer to the fire, too, over the years, and the lighting nearby had been turned down. Albus could see adequately by the warm orange glow of open ovens, but a comfortable temperature for an elderly house elf was downright sweltering for an old wizard. Even after surreptitiously casting a personal cooling charm, he was sweating by the time he had conjured a stool and sat down.

"Zent?"

The elf was either asleep, or feigning it. This could get awkward, because touching him to wake him up seemed rude, and raising his voice risked coming off like yelling. Sometimes Albus had gotten another elf to wake Zent for him. Today that was unnecessary; a small head turned in the pile of rags, and eyes opened, shining a little in the light from the ovens.

"Zent, do you feel up to talking now? How are you?"

"Ehhhhhhh. Zent is here. A moment." Very, very slowly, the elf turned and sat up. "Ehhh." He squinted. "Albus Dumbledore? Zent is still alive, Zent is still here in the kitchens. Too old to work! Too old to move! Without the young ones . . .," he gestured around the room. "Without the young ones, Zent would not eat! Zent would slip away . . . All come to Zent for advice, they do, respect Zent. But Zent is so very, very old."

"'Still here' will do, won't it. At least so long as our minds are with us. You know, I am considered old now myself! A hundred and ten this summer." Albus shook his head. "It is good to have you around to give me some perspective." He sat and stroked his beard for a moment. "But I am afraid this is not a purely social visit. Do you recall our conversation a few weeks ago? About the wards?"

"Oh. Yes, yes, the wards. Zent remembers. Zent has discussed this, yes, asked the youngsters. Zent told them it was just in case, not to worry, Albus Dumbledore has not said bad wizards send their elves here. They is scared, Albus Dumbledore—do not like to think about things that scare them!"

Albus nodded. Serious fights between house elves were terrible, massively destructive events, given the elves' power, tenacity, and mental instability. From his point of view as Headmaster of the school, this made it all the more valuable to find a means of warding the grounds against unauthorized house elf apparation. He sympathized with the elves' aversion to conflict, though, and felt bad about making them contemplate it.

"Albus Dumbledore, sir, house elves is not to be messing with wards. It is not allowed. But Albus Dumbledore is very clever—he will find a way! And elves can test it for him." Zent nodded insistently.

"Is that so? Very well, then. It was something that affected you, and I had thought you would like to have a hand in it. I will, of course, as you say, ask for help testing my experiments. Ah. That is unfortunately not my only reason for coming down here." Zent looked at him expectantly. "You are, of course, aware of the paralyzed students in the hospital wing?"

"Paralyzed? Zent has not heard this. Elves do not get told news, sir. No one talks to elves."

"Oh. I am sorry. On Monday morning, or perhaps late Sunday night, a dozen students were found in the halls paralyzed. I am afraid this was the effect of a basilisk's gaze." The old elf's eyes widened. "Indirect, of course, the direct gaze would kill. That is what happened to poor Myrtle, as you remember." The elf nodded; he probably remembered Hagrid being blamed for it, but had complete trust in the words of Albus Dumbledore.

"Myrtle is displeased with me right now, since I sealed off the bathroom she has been haunting. I have reason to suspect it houses an entrance to Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets. Myrtle . . . said she heard someone come in, that night, and then hid in her toilet, refusing to come out and see who it was. I'm afraid I was rather cross with her about that." Albus sighed, and realized this was all irrelevant to the elf, probably. "In any event, I have been unable to find anything of use in that room, and would like you to— _discreetly_ —send an elf up there to look for any secret passageways they can find."

"Of course, Albus Dumbledore! An elf will look. But if great wizards cannot find it, it is well-hidden."

"Thank you. My next request is simply to keep an eye out, so to speak, for a basilisk. We could probably subdue it if we could locate it, but it also seems to be, as you say, well-hidden. Tell the elves not to try to fight it themselves, but to come straight to me if they think they have found it."

Zent nodded again, as if he were making mental notes. He looked much more alert than when Albus had first come down. Giving him a mission he could actually undertake—even if his role was leadership only—made a world of difference to him.

"Again, I thank you. Now, along with the students who were paralyzed, our caretaker, Argus Filch, also fell victim to the basilisk's gaze. He is in the hospital wing, and we have not had time to, um, hire a replacement." Zent looked neutrally on, presumably guessing where this was going and not wanting to show emotion. "This is an unusually bad time to lose him, since, as you must have noticed, we have introduced a number of roosters to the castle in the hopes their crowing will prove fatal to the basilisk. Hm. I am creating too much tension, and I apologize—please have the elves clean up the chicken poop, as it is currently beyond our ability." Zent's eyes widened, unsure if he grasped the situation properly. "Yes, yes, _discreetly_ , of course, but I am giving permission for the elves to clean the corridors of Hogwarts."

"Is Albus Dumbledore sure? We has not been allowed, must be a human . . . all my life! Too scary to see us! Not good enough to sweep the floors of the Great School!" Zent went through several expressions, then looked resolute. The elves had never liked Filch, and the rules about where they could and could not clean were one of the few things about their status that the elves actually perceived as oppressive results of prejudice. Albus was offering them a huge honor, and even Zent must know that there could be trouble if the public discovered it. No doubt, Albus thought, the elves would now try their best to discourage the hiring of a new caretaker, but that was not today's problem. Today's problem was a wholly unsubtle, unpolitical excess of chicken manure.

"We will be very careful, sir! No one will see! No one will know! Thank you, sir! Thank you!" The elf paused. "Albus Dumbledore comes to Zent, even though Zent is old and cannot work! But Albus Dumbledore finds things for Zent to organize, here from his pile of rags, in the corner! He is far too kind, he is! More than Zent deserves. He will not regret it! Zent will see it all gets done!"

It would, too, Albus thought, as he left. The golden glow of the kitchens reminded him of a Gringotts vault. Hidden treasures, both, and both valuable only to the extent they are made use of.

 

* * *

 

It was now around nine AM. He was to meet this morning with Minerva, to go over the report he had asked her to prepare for the Board of Governors. Lucius had demanded it, professing his Deep Concern over the Situation at Hogwarts, but his concern had so far not been so deep as to actually visit the school, or insist on calling a meeting, or in fact to do anything other than complain.

It was pointless, really, and he regretted making Minerva stay up late finishing it, especially after the far more important letters to parents she had handled the previous night. He could ignore Fudge and Skeeter easily enough, but the parents would have to be dealt with as they decided whether to keep their children at Hogwarts. He, of course, would strongly discourage them from pulling their children out of school, as he had instructed Minerva to convey in the letters. Interruptions in education were very disruptive and had long term effects, it was important in a crisis to maintain normalcy, Hogwarts was in fact extremely safe given the current precautions, everything was being taken care of, and so on. He had Minerva neglect to mention—in the letters as well as the report—his doubts about the efficacy of roosters in dealing with the basilisk, or the fact that the basilisk could probably remain hidden for centuries. Moreover, the letters and reports entirely left out any mention of other schools, lest the idea of transferring be placed in anyone's heads—education was not a commodity, and there was no comparing Hogwarts to the other institutions in the country. They were hardly peers or rivals! He had worked hard to keep the admission process as opaque as possible to ensure that _his_ picks for his school would actually attend. No sensible person would turn down Hogwarts, but people could be so insensible at times!

He also neglected to mention that the basilisk could probably only have been summoned by an heir of Slytherin, and that only one of those had been known in recent years. The implications of this were not lost on him, but no one else needed to know. Of course, he had gotten another one of those damn notes promptly after the incident, suggesting a possible (and extremely plausible) location for the Chamber's entrance, assuming the basilisk was real, and suggesting the whole thing could only have been undertaken by a parselmouth. Albus knew of no living parselmouths who would be willing to help him scout around the school, randomly trying potential magic words. Heck, so far as he had known there were none living in Europe at all, but the writer claimed to know of one, withholding their identity for the moment "for your own good, because I do not want you trying to go into the Chamber and confront the basilisk yourself right now."

What exactly was he supposed to do, then? Wait around? Who was supposed to kill the thing—some student stumbling upon it by accident, or going out past curfew to find it? And so he blocked off the bathroom, scolded Myrtle for being a terrible witness, examined everything, and asked the elves to check it out when he failed to find anything himself. He didn't have very high hopes. Tom or one of his horcruxes was probably behind this, and, as Slytherin's actual heir, Tom could no doubt keep the damn thing hidden, even from the headmaster, if he pleased. The monitoring device Albus had been working on—now in pieces due to the incident this morning with the rooster—was probably pretty futile. Tom was certainly the higher priority compared to the monster, anyway.

Albus planned to set a trap if he ever found the basilisk himself, rather than taking the thing on right away. He _had_ at least set the wards on the bathroom to alert him should anyone try to mess with them. He was pretty good at that sort of thing. Right now he had a confundus charm on the door, so anyone coming there would either have to be looking for the Chamber, or, he supposed, visiting Myrtle. He wasn't sure the latter ever happened. Poor girl.

The most recent note had also told him to keep an eye on Quirrel, if he could do it without giving himself away. Albus resented this. It was opaque, and Quirinus had never given the headmaster any reason to worry about his loyalties. He didn't like having some ex-Death Eater, or whoever it was, casting aspersions on faculty members without giving out any reasons for doing so. Besides, if the note writer was so good, why didn't he just watch Quirrel himself?

He sighed as sat back down at his desk, waiting for Minerva to arrive. When he had received the note tipping him off about Peter, he had jokingly said that if he didn't act immediately, he was sure it would grow to a hundred times its size and start eating students before the day was out. It had now been two months since he had been warned about the basilisk, and all his preparations had so far yielded no obvious benefits. Other than the simple action plan he had developed with the other faculty, he had, in fact, mostly ignored the note-writer's other advice.

He dug around in his files and pulled out the note. Doing so immediately brought back a feeling of too many things happening at once, spiraling out of his control, with everyone, note-writer included, expecting _him_ to somehow deal with it all.

He went down the list in the note.

He _had_ done some research on detecting spirits, and possession thereby, but the literature on the topic was notoriously unreliable. He should _really_ have delegated that one. Asking Eeles to cover signs of possession seemed like too much of a give-away, though, so the item about preparing students was a non-starter. He didn't like the situation, of course, but anyway he wasn't sure there _were_ consistent signs of possession. Albus hated to admit it, but Alastor's "constant vigilance" and insufferable question-posing were probably the best method for detecting possession that he knew of.

What if he caught Tom while possessing someone? Great question. What would he do? The literature on trapping a spirit was also notoriously unreliable. Fine. He'd try to get help. He certainly had plenty of friends abroad who were not involved in the whole wizarding war thing.

The locket. The writer had said the goblins had asked for 20,000 galleons to uncurse the ring. Maybe he should stop trying to get it to open himself—it was clearly trying to influence him every time he touched it, and he was increasingly unenthused about the prospect of further work with it.

Did he know how to get the cup from the LeStranges' vault? Yes, there were legal procedures for getting at suspected dark artifacts, but that would tip his hand entirely and he didn't want to do that until he was sure he controlled the other horcruxes.

Blocking spirits with wards. If he could reliably detect them, which he couldn't, he was sure he could block them, too. He wondered whether that would be a good one to delegate.

Blocking house elves—well, he had actually tried to do something with that, right? He had tried delegating, even! In retrospect maybe delegating to the house elves themselves was a poor idea to start with, though.

Getting rid of ministry-dependent wards—he had in fact done this on Longbottom Manor, which had previously had an unplottability enchantment that he replaced with something he had dug up himself. Nobody else seemed to be using that one, though, so that was an item for the "done" category. Small comfort.

Strengthening the Hogwarts wards—he knew hundreds of ways to do this, all requiring resources he didn't have readily at hand.

Fiddling with the Dark Mark had not been high on his list of priorities, although maybe it should be. He would just give in and ask Severus about it soon.

Keeping the basilisk out of the castle—damned if he knew.

The unicorns, now, were a straightforward problem, and probably fairly solvable. And their importance was obvious, too—a spirit trying to form any sort of temporary body would go straight for unicorn blood if they could get it. He started mentally going over possible approaches in his head, but was interrupted by Minerva before he could get any further down the list. He hastily tucked the note back in a drawer when he heard the gargoyle sliding out of the way for her.

 

* * *

 

Her report was excellent, of course. He had nothing to add to it, told her so, and sent her off to make copies and owl them out to the Board members. He was left alone in his office again, listening to the distant crowing of roosters. They seemed rather noisier than usual, at least as best as he could tell, given the past few days as a baseline.

He wondered, briefly, if he should have left the engorgement charm on that one this morning. Give it more of a fighting chance if the basilisk actually showed up. No, he thought, no doubt the basilisk would be his problem in the end, battling it out in some ridiculous blindfolded duel that would show off his power and get him accused of orchestrating the whole thing.

"Br-kawk!"

Yes, the crowing outside was definitely getting more frequent. He contemplated going down to shoo the nearest roosters away, getting them to defend other parts of the castle. Roosters did not understand the concept of strategic deployment. Actually, they were pretty hard to shoo, too, if this morning's incident was representative.

He heard footsteps in the hall below, stopping just in front of the gargoyle. Then, muttering. Two people, male voices, arguing about something. It seemed unlike any of the professors, and any students down there were definitely out of bounds given the current security program. Huh. He let the gargoyle slide aside, but said nothing. He had to keep up his advantage in mysteriousness, after all.

 

The first thing he saw coming up the stairs was a wooden crate, being levitated in front of his visitors. This was followed by an embarrassed-looking Remus Lupin and a cheerful Sirius Black. Albus smiled, but waited for them to make the first move.

"Greetings, Professor!" Sirius called out. "It has been brought to my attention that you have a bit of a situation here. A slithery little problem?"

This was a relief—it was nice to see friends, especially ones who seemed pleased to see him. Even if, as was at least the case with Sirius, they looked like they thought they had just gotten away with something.

"It would seem so, I'm afraid," Albus replied. "I gather, by your unexpected presence in my office, bearing an expression of glee and a mysterious box, that you have something to say on the matter? Perhaps something that I could not, in fact, stop you from saying, short of using a silencing spell? I must admit you are the first people this week to look remotely happy to see me. So." He gestured at the box and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"We have brought you chickens! Well, roosters, actually. At least we think they are all roosters. We're not sure how to tell, and some of the muggles who sold them to us seemed awfully amused. Nevertheless, they are probably all roosters. Male members of the species _Gallus gallus_ , brought to Hogwarts in its time of need!" Sirius gestured dramatically, pointing at nothing in particular.

Albus spoke slowly and carefully. "Would I be correct in assuming your . . . gift . . . is contained in that crate, complete with air-freshening and silencing charms?"

"Oh no, no," said Remus, shaking his head, "the crate contains chicken feed. I, being the responsible one, convinced Sirius to provide that as well. It seemed unfair, otherwise."

"Oh," said Albus. "I see. Then, the roosters . . .?"

"Are making themselves at home in the castle, of course. You can hear them now, making friends with each other already!"

The distant "krawk!"-ing noises did not, in fact, sound friendly, but under the circumstances Albus let it slide. He sighed. "You wouldn't happen to know, would you, _how many_ roosters you have just released in Hogwarts?" If these were students, he thought, he would have delivered that line while peering sternly over his glasses.

"One hundred twenty-eight!"

Albus leaned back in his chair, sighed again, and conjured chairs for his guests. "You might as well have a seat, I suppose, while I go through the obvious questions, since no doubt you would be gravely disappointed if I did not. Ah, good. Now then, is there anything magical about these birds? Special enchantments?"

Sirius glanced at Remus with a look Dumbledore interpreted as 'Damn it, why didn't we think of that!'

"Er, no. Do you actually need any, for them to work on the basilisk?"

"No, no, not that I have ever heard. Unenchanted, ordinary roosters are perfectly acceptable. Preferred, even, I would say."

"Sooo . . . why did you ask, then?"

Albus smiled. "There was a rather amusing incident in my office this morning . . . I have told precisely one person about it so far, so naturally I expect the story to have made it through the entire school by the end of dinner. Since I believe you are getting your gossip through your cousin, Miss Tonks, I think I will leave her the pleasure of sharing that one with you."

"You just don't want us getting any ideas on the way out!"

"Perhaps. Be that as it may, let us move on to your own story—how exactly _did_ you get one hundred twenty-eight roosters into the castle? Did you have help?"

Sirius glanced once more at Remus, who shrugged. "Not really. Not once we got here, at least. I guess it depends on what counts as 'help'. We just sort of shooed them along, and in they went!"

"Through the front door?"

"We have to keep some secrets."

There were wards to keep out people with hostile intentions, and these applied to the tunnels as well, but they weren't very reliable. Anything else had to be activated affirmatively, and Albus wasn't interested in keeping the school on a near-war footing without a genuine, imminent threat. The benefits of leaving the tunnels alone—or at least, what _he_ considered benefits—usually outweighed the risks. He could just picture Remus and Sirius herding the roosters along in front of them, down a narrow tunnel from Hogsmeade.

"Did anyone see you?"

"One or two residents of Hogsmeade, but they promised to be discreet about it."

"You didn't threaten anyone, did you?"

Sirius looked indignant. "What? No! My charming good looks were enough, of course!"

Albus knew better than to take that bait. He drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking. There were probably several other questions they were itching to answer, such as 'Why one hundred and twenty eight, precisely?'. This did not mean Albus would ask them.

"You are aware, of course, that there is no proof that the crow of a rooster is efficacious against a basilisk, nor is there any proof that a basilisk is present in Hogwarts?" Albus smiled. "Under the circumstances I am genuinely grateful for your efforts, of course, but please understand that the problem is not necessarily solved." He really was grateful, actually, even if Sirius and Remus _did_ think they were getting away with something. It would provide him with some political cover, at least, being able to claim the roosters were not his doing.. "Hm. Do you wish this gift to be attributed to you, should anyone ask?"

"I hadn't thought of that, actually. Remus?"

Remus thought for a moment before speaking. "If we actually have a choice . . . I would mildly prefer if you kept my role out of it, please. It might irritate certain factions . . . and the papers will jump on it . . . not that we could make Lucius Malfoy dislike us more than he already does, I suppose. How about this—if you absolutely need to blame someone else, go ahead and use our names—"

"—Hey!" interrupted Sirius, "speak for yourself. Volunteering my name . . . of course, I agree. We will cheerfully take the blame if need be, since we are secure in the knowledge that we had the purest of intentions, doing our part as conscientious alumni who look fondly back upon our days at our alma mater, looking after the children, who are of course, the future, and, since surely anyone else would have done the same—"

Albus cut him off, waving his hand. "That will do, that will do. Enough. You know, I think this is the first time I have seen you in this office after you have pulled off something helpful and constructive, so you may be justly proud of yourselves. Good show, and thank you."

"Oh." Sirius looked unsure what to make of this. "You are, of course, very welcome. Do you have any other problems we could address for you in an equally spectacular way?"

Albus had to think about that. "None that I would care to suggest to you, no. Nothing springs to mind."

"You know," offered Remus, "while I suspect this was a unique opportunity, I want you to know that I, at least, am capable of subtlety. I don't know about Sirius." Sirius snorted. "In all, well, seriousness—not his kind—, though, it seems like there has been a string of unexpected events in the past half year, some prompted by anonymous tips sent to _you_. Honestly I am worried by this. Albus, I know it's complicated, but the fact that you wanted to put wards on _my_ house suggests you are worried about something you aren't telling us. If something is going on, especially if it concerns us, we would like to help."

Albus sighed, again. "Hm." He sat, thinking, trying to decide how much to say. "I wish, in this case, there were more that I could tell you. In the last war, the Death Eaters were usually careful to take credit for their acts, and those acts unfortunately were usually very deadly. Anyone behind the incident Sunday night has so far done an excellent job of evading detection, and if it was, indeed, a basilisk, the lack of fatalities suggests that great care was taken on their part to ensure its gaze was always indirect."

"So you think they put sunglasses on it?" asked Sirius.

"Yes, actually."

"Maybe it was a warning," suggested Remus, "meant to show us what might have happened. Let us stew in our fear for a while, then make a demand later?"

"That would be one possibility, yes. If we cannot locate them or the basilisk in the meantime, that in itself would be, effectively, a real threat. It would be very impressive. Just because well meaning friends are able to sneak a hundred chickens into the school does not mean Hogwarts is an easy target for our _enemies_."

"Threat or not," asked Remus, "why now?"

"I truly wish I knew. It is, of course, possible the release of the basilisk is related to the release of Sirius and capture of Pettigrew, or perhaps to Harry's appearance in the news, but I have no working theory as to how."

They all sat in silence for a moment. Sirius broke it, saying "still, I think you should consider reconvening the order. Or at least, giving us something to work on, so you aren't doing it all yourself. Honestly, I'd enjoy the excitement."

"No doubt." Albus smiled. "Now, I believe it is time for me to go make an appearance at lunch. You two should be on your way. I'll have the house elves take care of the chicken feed."

 

* * *

 

Lunch was uneventful, relatively. It was also a poor time to make announcements, so as much as he wanted to say something about the rooster in his office this morning, he would need to wait until dinner, when there wasn't so much random coming and going. He kept alert for repeats of yesterday's incident between the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, but, while the Slytherins certainly seemed amused by something, no one seemed to be picking any fights. Good. That was a relief.

Unfortunately peace at the students' tables did not necessarily guarantee peace right next to him. Madam Pomfrey leaned forward, looked down the table past him, and cleared her throat.

"So, Severus." The potions master looked up at her, with a non-committal look honed over years of similar pestering. "A student told me today that Erasmus here has been mentioning dragon repellant in class, and wondering why you haven't taught them anything about dealing with the basilisk. They're going to be disappointed when they learn we aren't letting them make the mandrake draught, once the plants are mature, since I'm sure they'd like to help their friends . . . besides if the dragon repellant works, it would be a shame not to teach them about it right now, wouldn't it?"

Severus smiled, slightly. "I wonder," he said, giving her a questioning look, "if you have actually smelled any of the products to which Erasmus has been referring."

"I can't say I have. I'm sure it's very pungent, of course, in order to work, but we can't very well expect it to smell like roses and cake, now, can we?"

Severus shook his head, realizing where this was going. "Madam Pomfrey," he drawled, "perhaps _you_ would tolerate its smell in your hospital wing, but I do not think the rest of us would want it in our classrooms. I suppose," he said, thoughtfully, "given that you believe medicine should taste like medicine to discourage its abuse, _you_ would have me teach the dragon repellant with extra ingredients added—perhaps to make it smell more authentic? I assure you it is vile enough as it is. I can't imagine students would need any further deterrent from using it as perfume, if that is your concern."

"Why, Severus, it's almost as if you know me, after working together for years!" She smiled sweetly. Albus was never sure whether Madam Pomfrey's ribbing was affectionate or not; usually she just seemed to be trying to get a rise out of Snape for her own amusement. They certainly worked closely together well enough when necessary, but that working relationship never seemed to carry over to mealtime conversations, or really to any time Albus was actually present.

"Well," mused Pomona, "he could at least demonstrate the potion for the class, when the time comes—still a few months off, as you know—I'm having the students start another crop of mandrakes, just in case. Of course, I do hope you will see no more cases in your wing, Poppy. There ought to be plenty more mature mandrakes by midsummer if there are more, though—need to let some flower and go to seed, of course. Very noisy when that happens. But yes, there ought to be plenty."

"Oh?" Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. "How convenient." Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but she didn't follow up. When Albus had commandeered the mandrakes on Monday for Poppy's eventual use in restorative draughts—forbidding Sprout to use them for anything else—Sybill's plans for the plants had become common knowledge.

 

* * *

 

They had met in the greenhouse late Monday afternoon—Albus, Poppy, Pomona, and Severus—to take stock of the mandrake crop and determine if it would be adequate for the paralysis victims. The consensus was that the thirty or so existing plants would probably be enough, provided there were no more attacks, but there would not be much left over.

"Sybill will be unhappy about it, poor thing," Pomona had said, once Severus had double-checked his calculations.

"Sybill?" Madam Pomfrey had a look of dawning realization. "You wouldn't . . . please tell me this is for her own personal use, and not for the students?"

"Oh dear. Yes, her plan was to use them in class, but only for the seventh years, you know, as a sort of treat at the end of the year."

Madam Pomfrey looked horrified. "A _treat_? Do you have any idea how dangerous that could be? I can't imagine she would have the good sense to do it one at a time, either! A whole roomful of students in an altered state, any one of whom might have a bad reaction to it! Is this going to be a new trend in her teaching, offering 'treats' to her favorite students and leaving it to _me_ to deal with any ill-effects? Pomona, how could you possibly go along with this?"

"Now, now," said Sprout, trying not to look too flustered, "do leave me out of this. You know very well I have the students growing ingredients for many of us, you included. You don't see me second-guessing the safety of your own healing potions, do you?"

"Of course not! Because I am sane and reasonable, and competent in my own field! When was the last time Sybill successfully 'divined' anything? At least before this year she seemed harmless enough."

Albus cut in—this had gone too far. "Please. This is all neither here nor there. The mandrakes will be reserved for Poppy's use in the hospital wing, and that is final, so there is no use in us fighting over them further." He sighed. "As to Sybill, Poppy, I urge you to treat your colleagues with more respect. I myself was given mandrake extract as a third-year, when I took Divination, and no harm came to me or my classmates. Of course," he mused, "it didn't make up for my lack of natural gift in the subject, and I dropped the class halfway through."

Poppy snorted. "No doubt because you were one of the only ones sensible enough to realize it wasn't real magic, while the rest continued to fake it."

Severus raised his hand, and looked questioningly at Albus. "If I may," he began, "Professor Trelawney,"—he emphasized the word 'professor', although Albus wasn't sure what he was implying—"despite her total failure to give an impression of professionalism—"

"Severus!" Albus wanted to cut that off, before Poppy forgot what the conversation was about and started in on whether swoopy cloaks and greasy hair were good indicia of professionalism in Snape's opinion, and how maybe they should all try it for a day. She had actually suggested that, once.

Snape looked as if he were dealing with an especially inept student. "Perhaps," he said, looking at Albus, "someday in the future you might let me finish, instead of assuming _I_ am the one disrupting the harmony between your staff." He smirked, slightly, knowing that this was something Albus worked very hard to preserve. "Alas, I fear it is a vain hope. Professor Trelawney, issues of professionalism aside, has had some . . . limited dealings with me, and I have been left with an impression of someone with more cunning than you give her credit for. I may, in fact, adopt her calming-draught technique in my own class." Madam Pomfrey sighed, looking aggravated.

Severus glared at her. "Surely you do not think I _enjoy_ it when students are squeamish about potions ingredients? I imagine you think I awake every morning saying 'Ah! Newt eyes today, I think! Assuredly that shall make them vomit all over my classroom! What fun!'"

Albus would have preferred to have never heard Severus use that tone of voice, ever, and would now be trying hard to forget it.

"No!" Snape said, "if a simple potion can alleviate any of the woeful incompetence of the dunces I am given to work with, even if it only lets them ascend to making errors of greater sophistication, I will gladly use it. I do not seek to give myself headaches, and I commend Professor Trelawney for having the good sense to avoid them herself, however unorthodox her methods."

"Making a bad idea easier to pull off," said Poppy, "is in no way a commendable teaching method, in my opinion. You all are acting like it is normal and healthy to force children to slaughter their own pigeons for magic that probably doesn't even work! Tarot cards, crystal balls, tea leaves—if _bird entrails_ naturally come next in the list, and it seems that they do, we would all do well to keep a close eye on Sybill's 'innovations'."

"We would all do well to watch our tongues," countered Severus, "as our Divination professor has been corresponding with my good friend Mr. Malfoy, who, in his capacity as a member of the board of governors, has been encouraging her to reintroduce old traditions into her pedagogy. Perhaps that news had not reached the hospital wing?"

"It had not." Madam Pomfrey looked disturbed, and dropped the issue.

Albus pretended nothing had happened, although the business with Lucius had been news to him too, and fairly unsettling news, at that. "Well, then, now that that is settled, I think we all have work to do," he said, brushing his hands together. With that he had herded Poppy and Severus back to the castle, and sent them—separately—on their way.

 

* * *

 

It was with this conversation in mind that Albus was cringing, grateful that Poppy had declined to comment further (even if she was sure to express her displeasure in his office later). For once, fear of Lucius Malfoy had done something positive in his school, although he would never admit it to the man. No doubt Lucius would get wind of the commandeering of the mandrakes soon enough, and find some way to exploit it to make Dumbledore's life difficult. Albus, though, had no fear of Lucius Malfoy, and had on numerous occasions simply told him to stuff it. Politely, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am finding this section extremely hard to write. The "day in the life" concept was something I wanted to try, but I don't think I will do it again. It is just not my natural style.
> 
> I've written 3.5k words of the next chapter -- the second half of this one --, but it is going very slowly. I'm posting this first part by itself partly because I don't think further editing passes will accomplish anything, and also because I'm hoping for positive reinforcement from readers.
> 
> Now would be a good time to give me encouraging reviews. :P Or, heck, any indication that my reader statistics are not from search engines and me refreshing the page as I fix stuff.


	48. A Day in the Life, Albus Dumbledore, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 48: A Day in the Life, Albus Dumbledore, Part II

 

Snotra the Cardiff Dragonhound had, in the several hours Penvro had let her snuffle around the castle, led him to Snape's potions cabinets, Quirrel's iguana, Kettleburn's personal quarters (the Care of Magical Creatures professor had not allowed him in; that was as far as they had gotten), and the entrance to the kitchens (well, he had to admit they smelled much better than the basilisk might have). She had also barked at several dozen roosters, which Penvro had been forced to keep away from her with hover charms. He had dutifully reported all this to Dumbledore.

"Professor," he said, standing uncomfortably before the headmaster's desk, "I really ought to inspect Professor Kettleburn's quarters. My boss won't like it if I don't."

"Hm." Albus stalled for time, thinking. The last time he had been in Kettleburn's quarters had been several decades ago, when Silvanus' patronus (it was corporeal, but Albus had never managed to identify the thing) had arrived in his office, asking Albus for help "with a little problem I'm having in my quarters, not a big deal, but if you could *urk*." The large, magic-resistant Great Basin reticulated rock python (or so Kettleburn had called it, at any rate) had fortunately not been venomous, but it had managed to break several ribs and render Kettleburn unconscious by the time Albus found him.

Albus had apparated (headmaster's privilege, within the school) both of them straight to the hospital wing, without having taken note of too much else during the search for the accident-prone wizard. He was pretty sure that Silvanus lacked permits for a great many of the occupants of the cages, tanks, and containment charms that filled his suite. Even the various uncaged animals that had greeted him at the door had included some things Albus had never seen before. No doubt Kettleburn spoke to them all in the same characteristic babytalk he lavished on all other monsters. In any case, so long as injuries were kept to a minimum and students got good marks on their tests, Albus was content to look the other way when Ministry regulations weren't precisely followed to the letter. Or, more likely, were egregiously disregarded.

If Penvro pushed the issue, Albus would have to obliviate him. This was not the preferred outcome, of course, but he would do it if necessary.

"Would you settle for Professor Kettleburn swearing an oath that he was not knowingly behind the attacks in any way?"

"Oh. Sure. I think I'd be off the hook, then. Thanks, Professor!"

Albus smiled at him. It was nice to find simple resolutions to things, and just as nice to be reminded that most Ministry employees were former students of his who, more or less, seemed to regard him fondly, and were not in fact trying to make his life difficult.

"Let's see, then," he said, pulling out a notebook and pretending to check a schedule, then pulling out a pocketwatch. "It is now . . . one o'clock. I think Silvanus is in class until 2:45, and then we have a short window to catch him before the next one." Albus could keep all that stuff in his head just fine, but often he found it less jarring for people if he seemed a little more like their idea of a forgetful old man.

In any case, the short delay gained by looking things up gave him a chance to figure out what to do with Penvro in the meantime. He didn't really like having people use his floo, since he didn't want the Ministry getting used to it being the main entrance to Hogwarts and expecting it to be available whenever they pleased. Normally, then, he would just expect a visitor to know how to fend for themselves, but under the circumstances he didn't want anyone wandering aimlessly around the school or waiting by himself somewhere. Irma would have a fit at the idea of a dog in the library, and Albus knew better than to stir her up. The floo it was; fortunately Snotra seemed to know what to do, and he was free for another hour and a half.

Well, sort of free, in that he was free to deal with all the paperwork that for various reasons the Headmaster was required to take care of personally. Hogwarts had a very nice internal mail system for staff to move documents around—the right spell from an authorized wand would banish a piece of paper into whatever the recipient chose to use for an inbox. In Albus' case it was a drawer. His personal mail got rerouted there, too, so it was usually quite full, and would have been unmanageable without extension and sorting charms.

He was ordinarily faced with quite a lot of paperwork each day, but he had put it off two days in a row now in order to deal with the current crisis. Albus Dumbledore believed in—and in fact had a reputation for believing in—the value of preserving normality in the face of crisis. In this case "normality" was pretty tedious, but it would only get more so if he put it off.

He sighed and started in.

Two minor spending requests for items arguably not covered by faculty members' budgets (signed without reading—why can't people learn to fudge the rules and leave him alone?). Nine written disciplinary reports from heads of houses (also signed without really reading, despite the fact that the whole point of getting his signature was to make sure he read them). The daily automated transcript of house points awarded and taken away (same). Fourteen memos various people were required to send him (filed away unread, which was probably all that was required of _him_ ).

Three letters from as many different Ministry offices, addressed to the school. Minerva had been able to spare him from dealing with nineteen of the original twenty-two, but this meant he definitely needed to read whatever she sent on to him.

Twenty-six notices from the Wizengamot, which, not being Minerva's responsibility in any way, he had to sift through personally, preferably several times a day, just in case there was something in there he really needed to deal with. People tried to pull fast ones on him all the time, and unfortunately some of them were bound to succeed. It was annoying.

There were thirty-five letters sent to him in his capacity as Supreme Mugwump. Fortunately he had gotten good at guessing which were important, and had a lot more leeway for mistakes than he had with the Wizengamot.

All that took about an hour, and today was so far a remarkably good day. Usually not much happened in January.

Next up was a pile of applications for the custodian job. Albus agreed with the rule that the Headmaster made all hiring decisions personally. He just had no desire to replace Argus right now.

Argus Filch, contrary to popular belief, had been hired for his people skills. He "passed" as being on the side of pureblood traditionalists, giving Hogwarts sorely-needed breathing room whenever scrutiny came. He could handle Peeves and the ghosts without going insane, usually managing to even get their help when he needed it. As custodian, he had an excuse to be in odd places at odd hours, and Argus was extremely observant—infuriatingly so, to the students. He gave them just the right amount of incentive to avoid breaking rules, such that those who he _did_ catch breaking them usually had substantial, if rarely praiseworthy, motivations for doing so. Better still, no one paid very close attention to him because he was a squib, working class, and had no fancy education. Since no one took him too seriously as a real person, even when they were terrified of him, Filch could undertake fairly sophisticated tasks for Dumbledore without anyone realizing what he was up to.

Most importantly, though, Filch enjoyed being cantankerous and intimidating, and he did a spectacular job of drawing students' ire over the enforcement of rules. This left Albus free to play a stern but empathetic grandfatherly role. Not all of the other staff grasped this, but those who did freely exploited it themselves when opportunities arose.

Albus did not want strange people joining the school during a crisis. He did not want to have to watch over them in case they were secretly Death Eaters, he did not want to train them, he did not want to have to ask them to do everything Filch had done without being asked, he didn't want new people scrutinizing disciplinary records or spying for the _Prophet_ or genuinely mistreating students or any one of countless other things he was worried about. Also, he didn't want to give the students anyone else to compare Filch to.

Personally, then, Albus was happy to leave things to the elves until everyone could be un-paralyzed in the spring, but, unfortunately, sooner or later somebody would notice what the elves were up to and complain. 'Merlin knows why,' he thought, but a lot of people had a lot of issues about house elves, and he ignored that at his peril. So he had to at least _look_ like he was evaluating candidates, which was worse than actually doing so, since he had to not only do background checks and conduct interviews, but also had to come up with plausible-sounding reasons to reject them all, even if they really _were_ qualified.

He picked two, nearly at random, and wrote Minerva a note telling her to schedule interviews with them.

Penvro called and flooed over. They found Kettleburn, who had been through this routine many times before and swore a simple oath without acting like anything was out of the ordinary. Penvro thanked them both, and Albus let him floo back to his office.

It was now 3:15, and Albus had not touched any of his personal mail. He had a word for this kind of afternoon: "boring". It was miserable, it was a waste of his abilities, it was stupid and mind-numbing and usually utterly pointless, and it made him genuinely wish for students to get into enough trouble to get sent to his office and interrupt him.

The alternative, though, was to have someone else in his positions of power, and that was simply not an option. Even more frustratingly, anyone he considered qualified and trustworthy enough to be his personal secretary invariably had far better things to do than pre-sort his mail. Albus was constantly being criticised for not having a secretary. He had, in fact, made quite a few offers over the years, and aside from some volunteers during the height of the last war, no one wanted the job.

So on top of his official duties, he had to deal with all of his personal mail on his own. It contained a lot of junk. This, fortunately, could be automatically sorted out. He had the elves burn it periodically. Mail from specific people could be sorted, too. He had even, to his great relief, managed to redirect genuinely anonymous letters (damn them) into the same, high-priority file reserved for people like Nicolas Flamel.

Quite a lot of the rest were letters from people he didn't know, asking for help he was either unable or unwilling to give them. Sometimes it made sense for him to help. Sometimes he picked someone at random and paid them a visit, just for the sake of appearances. Word got around, garnering him political support and even more mail. He had become adept at identifying which of these to open first, and which to put off for another day. He usually put a lot off, and then had to spend an occasional Saturday catching up.

By 4 PM, he found himself staring absentmindedly around the room, unable, or at least unwilling, to concentrate on letters any longer. Today had involved unusually few interruptions—he supposed that herding the students around in groups probably resulted in fewer opportunities for trouble.

He hovered the pieces of his latest project—trashed by the rooster—back onto his desk. Originally it had been a sort of stylized map of Hogwarts, on which little lights would appear should various linked snake-detection charms (yet to be cast) go off. He had made this sort of thing before, trying to represent multiple bits of information in terms of their real-life spatial relationships. Real maps of Hogwarts were usually impractical, as were scale models. Somewhere, though, he had a little wooden plaque showing the location of the Hogwarts Express in the style of a London Underground map, which he had been very pleased with himself for thinking of. It had inspired several other little gadgets which had delighted muggleborn students and baffled almost everyone else.

He had not heard anything from the house elves yet, which by now meant they had searched insanely thoroughly and fruitlessly for any signs of the basilisk, but were too embarrassed to say anything to him about it. He would have to give up on detecting it directly, and come up with something else. Maybe he could detect paralysis victims themselves, instead, so that he could at least find any new ones promptly? That seemed worth a try.

It would look good if he visited the hospital wing, too, and trying to find a detection charm would require some nice, public episodes of standing around casting spells no one recognized, muttering to himself, and generally being inscrutable. That sort of plan was usually a good one, in his experience.

 

* * *

 

It _was_ a good plan, too, except for the part where Madam Pomfrey came with him when he left for dinner.

"Albus, do you really think Mr. Malfoy is behind Sybill's . . . new-found interests?"

"I couldn't say," he answered, trying not to look too frustrated. "Before our meeting in the greenhouse, I would never have expected it of her. Lucius can be very charming when he wants to, though. It is not unthinkable. Be assured I will speak to her about it."

"When? You really ought to know what else she has planned. Severus might not care whether he poisons _his_ students, but at least he is competent enough to _know_ he is doing it and avoid going too far!"

Albus wondered if, by that, she meant that Snape was adequately intimidated by her, and that presumably Sybill was somehow beyond her influence. He chose not to ask.

"I will pay her a visit within the next week. I am, of course, as curious as you are, if not more so!"

"Well, as long as you can find the time, then, I suppose that's okay." This was said rather bitterly and followed by awkward silence the rest of the way. Albus knew Poppy didn't like how much time Albus spent on concerns external to the school, but she would never outright suggest he resign his other positions. He was confident that she understood the need to keep their opponents at bay, and that the current arrangement was for the best.

 

* * *

 

He made some announcements at dinner—a few platitudes about staying calm in the face of uncertainty and the value of getting along, followed by a reminder of the current safety rules. He had been planning on pointing out that enchantments on domestic, non-magical animals were regulated by the Ministry, but decided against it at the last moment. Not only would it be "nose beans", as Arthur would put it, but it brought up embarrassing memories of his brother's trial.

The relevant Ministry regulations could be summarized as "don't do things that risk violating the Statute of Secrecy." Animals, which could move about on their own power and volition, were considered especially perilous subjects for enchantment, and there was a legal presumption that they were good at escaping from ordinary confines. Thus, while Hogwarts might be considered adequately secure, his brother's rickety goat pens in Hogsmeade most definitely were not. Aberforth's indignant insistence that his were "good goats, who wouldn't ever try to escape" was deemed legally irrelevant.

No, that was all best forgotten. He did, however, decide to ask Filius to put up some wards keeping chickens from getting in or out of the castle without permission; this kind of spell was trivial, even if _some people_ never bothered to use it. It would have been nice, of course, to generalize whatever wards Filius used, as an additional layer of protection, but too many strange things came in and out of Hogwarts as part of its day-to-day operations—owls, cats, toads, anything the professors were working with, and Merlin knows what-all that made up the ecosystem of the castle grounds and roosted somewhere inaccessible. If they were too enthusiastic with the wards, dealing with the unintended consequences might take up weeks of his time.

 

A few minutes after he had finished his announcements and food had appeared, he made some casual remarks to Erasmus that led to everyone giving advice to everyone else concerning what they ought to be teaching in their classes to deal with the basilisk. Albus didn't pay very close attention once he had gotten them all adequately worked up, but it had seemed like an effective brainstorming session. He hoped his staff would have the good sense to get over their irritation at each other enough to implement what their colleagues had come up with. It was not, in his experience, a very well-founded hope, but stirring up the conversation had been the right thing to do nevertheless.

 

* * *

 

Albus got back to his office around 7. It seemed very quiet in here. The only sounds were a few ticking devices and the wind outside the window. Fawkes was gone, which was unremarkable. There was no need to let a phoenix out to hunt when it could just teleport. He doubted Fawkes ever joined the owls in catching mice, though—it was more likely he went straight to the kitchens and got fussed over by the elves. At least, that what Albus would probably do, in his familiar's position.

He considered the portraits of former headmasters. There were over fifty of them in here, and they took up most of the wall space, but that didn't mean their personalities were a constant presence. Most were absent, off in some other part of the castle or in the frames of other portraits of themselves. Others were asleep or preoccupied with some activity.

For the most part, all of the headmasters of Hogwarts were dead brilliant, pun intended, even as portraits, so if they could ever be questioned calmly, and ideally alone, they were an invaluable resource. Albus couldn't usually do that from his office, though. If he started a conversation with one, the others would soon notice, and in minutes they would all be trickling back in. This invariably led to a cacophonous, pointless argument over some trivial event from before his time, forcing him to either silence the lot or leave the room.

It was a remarkable collection, really. Some of the most inflated egos in the history of British wizardry were concentrated here in one gallery, which unfortunately was also the office of their current successor. At least he could escape easily if he had to, just by going upstairs. Most wizards avoided hanging portraits in their own bedrooms; Albus was no exception.

He sat down and flipped through the latest Ministry notices. Nothing required his involvement.

A bell went 'ding!'.

This was the monitoring charm on the wards on Gryffindor tower. Its activation meant that either someone was trying to get in from the outside, or, more likely, that a student was trying to get out (probably through a window, since otherwise the Fat Lady would be able to report them). It dinged again, and then commenced a rapid series of repetitions. This stopped for a moment, and then was followed by a 'shave and a haircut, two bits' pattern, making it clear that some wise-ass was sending pulses of energy into the wards with the sole purpose of bugging him. Well, not necessarily just to bug him, but certainly to see if he was paying attention. This kind of thing was often the equivalent of throwing a hamburger over the fence to see if there was a guard dog on the other side.

If he reacted now, he'd reveal the existence of his monitoring charms, and the students would know they had to be more careful. Not that he thought they were capable of the kind of spell-work necessary to get past both the wards _and_ monitors, but so long as they had nothing better to do than try, they could (and probably would) keep at it indefinitely. He waited to see if anything else would happen—two minutes passed, and he went back to his mail. Five minutes; still nothing.

This was ridiculous—he could either go there now and give everyone a lecture about the importance of good wards, and hope that had some effect, or silence the damn monitor chime so that he wasn't waiting anxiously for someone to try taunting him again. Lecturing Gryffindors about the importance of following safety rules was, in his experience, rarely productive. He silenced the charm, vowing to personally check up on the wards every so often, just to be sure.

He looked out the window. It was quite dark out—the moon wasn't up—but he could see flakes of snow falling, illuminated briefly on their way down by the light from his office. He wondered if he should warn the centaurs and merfolk about the basilisk. Would it make any difference? Or would they just live more fearfully for a while, to no end, while the basilisk hid somewhere for another century. He should at least ask Hagrid to patrol the grounds, looking for the signs of a large snake slithering through the snow. Tom was good with wards, but he or his servants might not be so good about mundane things like tracks in snow. He wondered how well the basilisk could manage in the cold, and laughed at the image of Salazar Slytherin leaving behind a giant heat lamp and basking stone in the Chamber of Secrets.

He was tired.

He had been awoken early this morning, and had never caught up on the sleep he had lost earlier in the week. He felt like he had accomplished very little today, too, all things considered, and hated the idea of going to bed.

He owned a time-turner. Oh, it was illegal, and the Ministry would have a fit if they knew about it, but Albus Dumbledore was very hard to catch at that sort of thing. When you were skilled enough to make your own international portkeys and use them without detection, and when you had friends around the globe who owed you favors, and when you had managed to keep at it until the ripe old age of one hundred and ten, you could get your hands on a time-turner if you wanted one badly enough.

He had obtained it in the late Fifties, after thinking too much about everything he could have done differently in that mess with Gellert. It had been very, very useful a few times, but after a few years the drawbacks became more and more obvious. Too many times after using it, he had simply been unable to pull off what he wanted. Avoiding paradox required a truly exasperating level of meticulousness, and it was heartbreaking to keep it up when it _seemed_ so simple to just reach out and mess with time. Using it in emergencies was rarely wise—the risk of going insane was too high, and seemed especially so when you had a full understanding of everything that could go wrong if you botched things up.

So he had stuck to using it in situations like tonight, where he just wished for a longer day, or more sleep. Really, he had probably used it for napping more than for any other purpose. Those were some very productive years, and during them he had cemented much of the influence that later got him the Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump posts. Eventually, though, he realized he was aging faster than the world around him, and felt he had grown too dependent on the extra hours each day. He put the device in his vault at Gringotts, out of immediate reach should he be tempted, but available just in case. He had never removed it again, not even in the last war with Voldemort.

No one alive knew he possessed it. If they did, he wasn't sure he could endure their recriminations over every single event that he _might_ have interfered with. Time travel was complicated. The most compelling situations for its use were also the most dangerous. He was just as likely to find himself _causing_ anything he set out to prevent, but this was very hard to convince other people (let alone himself) of when they were desperate.

But there were still times when he thought about it—contemplated the difficulty of getting the goblins to take him to his vault at night, just to take it home and turn it all the way that one time, then put it back in the morning. It would never work that way, though. It wouldn't hurt to have one more night of getting enough sleep, and then it would do him a world of good to really catch up on everything for once. Clear out his mail drawer. Finish all the little projects he had been putting off. Do research again—maybe owl Nicholas and have him dust off the lab. Visit all the libraries he had rushed through over the years when he needed something specific, and just go back to browse aimlessly for once. Go on vacation.

He could just go, of course. Dig out his old tent, make an international portkey, leave some instructions for Minerva. It would be summer in the Southern Hemisphere. There were some incredibly remote places in the Andes he had once used for unusually dangerous experiments—it would be nice to go back when he wasn't worried about anything blowing up. No one would pester him there. And, if no one realized he was gone, they couldn't try to take advantage of his absence, right?

It wouldn't matter, with the time turner. He could take as much vacation as he liked, go wherever he liked, just so long as he also put in his hours at Hogwarts. The house elves would be happy to feed him more than three meals a day.

He was one hundred and ten years old. When would he ever get to do these things if he didn't make time now?

He was one hundred and ten years old, as far as the world was concerned. His body was many months older.

Unlike Tom, he had made no special efforts to evade his own mortality. Tom could simply wait him out, come back when he was gone, or do nothing for a few decades. Did it matter if Albus lived long enough to see young Harry fulfill his prophecy? That, too, could be decades from now. There could be another war brewing. What would happen without him there? His actual lifetime mattered—his lifetime as measured against the real, primary, one-second-per-second timeline of the world and everybody in it—not his subjective time, made up of moments he had stolen away with magic, letting himself "live fast" for short-term benefits.

No. He could take time off when the crisis was over and he was done doing everything he had to do. No, that was also terrible thinking. Some day he would die when he was in the middle of a hundred projects, and he wanted it no other way. He would take a weekend off, regardless. Just maybe not this next one.

For now, he would go to bed early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was enough Dumbledore for a while, I think.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter was kind of a downer to write, and I imagine reading it will be similar. I feel bad about leaving things on that note until the next update, but it's bound to happen sometimes, and anyway the chapter was ready to go and I had no reason to hoard it.
> 
>  
> 
> As to the expriment of telling the story from a single perspective for a continuous day, I have learned that it is very hard to do if it isn't strictly demanded by the plot. I have already dug into Dumbledore's character way further than I had ever planned to. Sure, he is in the middle of a lot of subplots, and canon sources give us lots of material to work with, but this isn't supposed to be _his_ story. I guess this is how a lot of other characters must feel -- "why does Albus Dumbledore _always_ involve himself in everything I try to do?"
> 
> In any case, it's one thing to do a short character study, like I did with Kettleburn and Sinistra, setting out my vision of them and making them usable characters. But a 14k one should not be undertaken on a whim. In my defense, though, I had no idea it would take so long to cover everything I had planned for the day. Still, I won't try this again anytime soon.


	49. Concerning Fairies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than Charlie probably wanted to know about fairies — another Kettleburn class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter 49: Concerning Fairies,

or,  
More than You Probably Wanted to Know about Fairies

 

Wednesday, January 16. Early afternoon.

Charlie was in the forest, mounted on his broom. He was halfway up a snow-covered pine tree, circling it, trying to pinpoint the high-pitched twittering coming from deep within its branches. Far off, he heard some of his classmates moving around on the forest floor, occasionally snapping twigs or just talking too loudly. He cringed, embarrassed on their behalf.

The schedules of upper-level Care of Magical Creatures classes included a multi-hour block once a week, which Kettleburn insisted upon for the sake of "field experience" and "practical exercises". Often, especially in the winter, he didn't use it, but he had plans for today's class.

Fairies were the source of the high-pitched twittering, and Charlie was only able to hear them so clearly because of a modified sense-augmenting charm. In past years, as best as Charlie knew, Kettleburn had saved the fairy unit for later in the year. Eeles had just covered sense-augmenting charms, though, in response to the basilisk crisis, so maybe Kettleburn wanted to take advantage of somebody else covering his material for him.

The class had, by seventh year, spent a lot of time collecting specimens around the castle grounds, so they knew their professor's safety speech by heart: stick to non-damaging spells, only use approved containers, don't disturb other wildlife, and so on. "Safety" here meant that of the magical creatures, of course—not, as Madam Pomfrey was so fond of pointing out, the students.

They were allowed to use brooms. Most didn't. The fact that Charlie consistently came back with more and better specimens than his classmates never seemed to really register with them. The one time he had asked, he was told "oh, you'd still do better than us without your broom, so what difference does it make?" Trying to argue with that kind of thinking gave Charlie a headache.

Selecting a spot, he carefully nosed his broom into a space between the branches, trying not to cause too much of an avalanche in the process. It was a grey day out, and snow was expected later, but overall the forest was suffused with white light as the extensive snow-cover reflected nearly everything that made it through the clouds. Moving from that to the dark center of the pine tree meant that Charlie had to wait a minute for his eyes to adjust once he had pushed his way in.

There was a hole in the trunk in front of him, about four inches wide, dripping resin at its base. The fairies' twittering had cut off abruptly at the sound of falling snow, but they were still luminescent enough that a faint glow came out of their hole and gave them away. Charlie edged up to it, trying not to make any further noise. He knew the twittering was unlikely to resume with him there—they could probably smell him or sense him in some other, magical way. But he waited a little while anyway before quietly withdrawing a bag from his robes. It contained a collection jar.

The jar was a magically-expandable glass container with a mouth that could be warded shut with a word or wand-tap—standard equipment for all five years of Kettleburn's class. Charlie took it out of the bag, adjusted it until it was about the size of a gallon jug, then held it in position over the hole. Sticking the end of his wand in between the trunk and the jar, he cast the spell he and Hagrid had carefully refrained from teaching the twins.

Three thrashing tangles of limbs and wings came flying out of the hole and into the jar, accompanied by tiny screeches and angry twittering. Charlie set the jar to 'closed', and a shimmering mesh covered the mouth. Air could get in, but the fairies couldn't get out. Hopefully. Still, better safe than sorry—the trouble with magical creatures is that they tended to have magic to defend themselves, and fairies were pretty far from Charlie's areas of expertise (they were small and not terribly dangerous). He quickly slid the bag over the jar and pulled its drawstring closed. That ought to keep them.

Charlie found Kettleburn down by the lake. Next to him, on a boulder, he had a large wire cage that looked more appropriate for a parrot than fairies. It was, so far, empty.

"I got three!"

"Good show!" Kettleburn beamed, and opened the door. "Just slip them in here. I'm sure the others will be along shortly!"

Charlie wasn't going to insult the old professor by asking if the cage was really charmed to keep the fairies from escaping, even though he'd seen that sort of thing happen dozens of times in this class by now. He'd find out soon enough—it was fairly quick work to get the bag open and release the wards on the jar mouth. The fairies could be trusted to dart into the larger space immediately, eager to get out of the jar if not escape entirely. Charlie got the door shut on them before they could catch their bearings. They flew up and twittered angrily at him, and one of them gripped the bars of the cage while making rude faces, but none tried to slip through and come after him.

"Oh look at that—they certianly look vexed at you, don't they? Come off it you!" Kettleburn shook his head, knowingly. "They just like the attention, you know."

Charlie was finally able to get a good look at them. They looked just like attractive humans—two males, one female—, except for being around six inches high, luminescent, and able to fly under their own power. Their wings were like a dragonfly's—two pairs, each as long as the fairy was tall, transparent and crisscrossed by an intricate network of veins. In flight, the wings were a noisy blur; at rest, they looked impossibly delicate, and wholly incapable of lifting their owners without magic. Charlie was surprised by one other thing, too.

"So," he asked, "when Professor Flitwick uses them for decorations, are they these same fairies?"

"Hmm." Kettleburn leaned in close and peered at them. "Yes, yes, it's a great indignity, I know. Well, that one there—he's still pretty young—you can still see the lines left over from his metamorphosis. Filius usually leaves those alone. But the other two look old enough, so maybe."

"So he takes them from the forest?"

"Oh yes, there are plenty—why not? It's exciting and lets them feel useful."

"What?" Charlie grinned. "They're no use in the woods? Sorry. What I actually meant to ask was, you know, whenever I've seen them before, they were wearing clothes."

"Oh! That's all Filius. Conjures little robes and such for them—they love that sort of thing, but of course they can never take care of them once he lets them go. Fairies aren't much for mending tears or doing laundry, you know. Not much call for that in the forest."

"Did somebody object to seeing them like this?"

Kettleburn looked thoughtful. "You'd have to ask Professor Flitwick yourself, of course, but I suspect he just thinks it looks pretty. You agree with him, right?" This last was directed at the fairies themselves, who cocked their little heads at Kettleburn, as if puzzled.

Charlie was used to his professor talking as if everything understood him, but this seemed a bit much. "You sound as if they can understand you . . . unusually well." There, that was diplomatic, right?

"Oh, naturally!" Kettleburn almost managed a Dumbledorish eye-twinkle there for a moment. "Almost all creatures will respond if you speak to them kindly. They all have their own sorts of intelligences— _you_ should know that by now."

"But, if fairies were that intelligent, surely wizards wouldn't—you know—I mean, my mum—"

"Charlie! That's enough of that. Yes, sadly some wizards lack respect for other species, but you don't need to bring it up in front of _them_."

Now the fairies were looking back and forth between the two humans, occasionally twittering to each other. The problem, of course, was that wizards _used_ fairies for all sorts of things. Like, say, potion ingredients, or soup. Charlie's mother had an excellent fairie-dust soup, and the twins had spent more detentions than they could count grinding dried fairy wings in a mortar and pestle for Snape. Wizards raised fairies commercially—that was one of the main reasons they were in the textbook!

Charlie struggled with what to say. "But, most of the chapter in the book—"

"Fairies can't read." That wasn't very enlightening, but Charlie decided to drop it. "Okay, Charlie, it looks like your classmates are having some trouble. I want to have at least ninety minutes of time in the classroom after this—go give them a hand."

"How many more do you want?"

"Oh, I don't know—you decide. Just find us few more, if you're able, and show the others how to do it. Go on!"

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later the class was getting settled into their seats. The cage was sitting on the table at the front of the class, and contained seven fairies, all caught by Charlie. These were either hovering in place or clinging to the bars, regarding the class curiously. Everything else on the table, whatever it was, was covered by a large piece of canvas; Kettleburn sometimes hid things to keep the students' attention focused on himself.

"Well then," said Kettleburn, "now that you have caught us some samples to look at, let's get started. Who can explain why fairies can't speak English?"

The textbook mostly covered things like how to get fairies to breed in captivity, what to feed them, and so on, but the class was quite used to Kettleburn going off on tangents by now. A boy from the back of the room raised his hand and was called on. "Language is innate to intelligent beings, and the fairies just don't have whatever it is that we do?"

"Hm, that wasn't very precise, but I think you're on the wrong track. What exactly do you think you were listening for today with that hearing charm?"

"Vibrations of their wings?"

"Partially. What else?"

"Uh, whatever other sounds they make?"

"So far, so good—fairies have larynges just like you and I. Nearly all warm-blooded animals have something analogous, and can produce vocalizations to communicate with one another." He looked around the classroom for someone to elaborate, but the boy protested.

"But that's just like grunts and barks and stuff, right?"

"For some creatures. Not for you. And not for the fairies. Do the reading next time." Kettleburn called on a girl at the back of the room.

"They use a combination of vocalizations and wing vibrations."

"Right. And so they can't learn English . . ."

"Because they can't produce the sounds?" Kettleburn was nodding. "So you are saying they could learn it if they had the right anatomy?"

"Not necessarily very well, but I suspect so, yes. I was trying to get you to think about the hearing charm. Hm. One last question on this topic, then, although I don't expect any of you to know this. Extra credit: why are their voices so high?"

Another girl answered. "Because they are really tiny?"

"And?" Kettleburn stared at her. She looked lost.

Charlie hated this kind of thing. He tried not to answer questions in class, since he usually knew all the answers, and Kettleburn knew Charlie was the only one who knew all the answers, but he would ask these difficult things to the class anyway. Then Kettleburn would give them so long to answer that Charlie couldn't stand it any longer, and he would come to everyone's rescue just to make Kettleburn move on. It was uncomfortably obvious to Charlie—and to his classmates—what was going on, but for the past four and a half years Kettleburn had acted like he didn't notice or mind that one student was doing most of the talking.

Well, Kettleburn was stuck in waiting mode again. Time to rescue the class for the zillionth time. Damn it.

"Yes, Charlie?"

"Their wings vibrate very quickly, for one thing—you can't even see them when they're flying. Magic lets them rely on the upper set of wings for flight and the lower set for communication, so I guess they can't talk and fly at top speed?" Kettleburn nodded, smiling. "And—like she said—their vocal tracts are really tiny, but they are otherwise like ours, right? I think the detail you wanted was that even their lowest resonant pitch is going to have a wavelength so short we can barely hear it—like a centimeter or something—I don't know what that is in terms of pitch, but since they are so much like humans it's proportional, and we wouldn't be able to hear it without the spell."

"Precisely! Ten points to Gryffindor!"

Charlie dearly wanted to make some comment about how unfair it was to expect wizards to know all that, but that kind of argument didn't work any better with Kettleburn than it did with Snape. The rest of the class would just take it as him being arrogant or patronizing to them, anyway.

"So," continued Kettleburn, "do any of you know what _this_ is?" He pulled from his pockets something that looked like a set of pan-pipes had been dipped in glue and rolled aimlessly in a bowl of slide whistles. The fairies in the cage were all watching the old professor very intently.

"What, none of you? You don't have any eccentric great aunts who sit around in the garden for hours on end, talking to the fairies? When I first started teaching, there would always be a few students who recognized a fairy whistle. Once in a while I'd even have a muggleborn student who had run across one—no respect for the Statute of Secrecy, fairies. Half of Britain believes in them anyway, so the Ministry doesn't even bother covering for them. Cheeky little things come and go as they please, don't you? So, this monstrosity—you probably want to know what it sounds like. Hm. Let's see . . ." He carefully arranged his fingers on the instrument, raised it to his mouth, and produced a sound remarkably like the fairy twittering, if a little slower. The fairies seemed to be laughing now—Charlie was sure of it once one of them moved its hands to its mouth in an imitation of Kettleburn, then pointed at him and twittered.

Kettleburn showed a flash of embarrassment, which he quickly hid. "I'm afraid I speak with a bit of an accent. Devilishly hard to learn, fairy whistles, and most wizards don't see the point. Thus it has traditionally been the province of the truly obsessive." A girl in the back raised her hand. "Yes?"

"If they have an actual language, why can't you use a translation spell?"

"Ah, well, first of all, you're right that you can't—it's much easier to learn to understand them and then teach them to understand you, than to spend countless hours squeaking at them while they laugh at you." He paused while some of the class giggled. "So, no, no one has bothered to invent a translation spell that would work. Fairy communication isn't quite as complicated as human speech in terms of syntax and vocabulary and so on, so it's hard to convey our ideas to them. _Assuming you can get them to listen at all, that is_." The last was directed at the fairies, who made faces in response.

Charlie noticed one of the fairies was in fact sticking her tongue out at the teacher. He looked around the room. Some of the other students—mostly those raised in wizard households, and those who had actually done the reading—were frowning. Charlie wondered if this whole routine was Kettleburn's way of gradually changing the minds of everyone who had grown up eating fairy-dust soup. Kettleburn obviously _believed_ the fairies understood him, at least when speaking English, even if the class was still skeptical. Okay, maybe a few muggleborn girls were hanging on his every word—they obviously wanted to believe, too.

Kettleburn continued his explanation. "That's all aside from the fact that the acoustic differences are so enormous—it's quite a challenge! Now, you would have noticed, if anyone had eccentric old aunts anymore, that there aren't really any decent books on how to use one of these things." He waved the fairy whistle around. "Would anyone care to guess why that is?"

Silence. Charlie sighed and raised his hand. "Lack of a decent notation system?"

Kettleburn smiled. "Yes, more or less. The skill tends to be passed down one-on-one and honed by imitation. Your average bored grandmother, or eccentric Care of Magical Creatures professor,"— more giggling —"can usually make at least some progress that way. As you know, fairies get distracted easily, but they like the attention, so they'll put up with quite a bit of awful whistling in their direction." Twittering from the cage, and more stuck out tongues. "Oh, come now, you, you know it's true. You _are_ vain enough to let Professor Flitwick play dress-up with you, so it's not like most of you would try to resist little old ladies fawning over you. Come now, I've seen you in Hogsmeade. Oh? Well, what about one of these children, then?" He pointed at the class. The twittering stopped, and the fairies actually gazed out over the class appraisingly, several of them looking pointedly at Charlie. Well, he did charm them into a jar. He was rather glad they were there in the cage, not loose and trying to get revenge.

 

One of the fairies turned to twitter at the professor. "Ah, yes, hm," Kettleburn muttered, "I thought you'd say that. I suppose, as they say, this charade has gone on long enough. Right then!" With that he reached over, lifted the latch on the cage, and opened the door. The fairies zipped out and started dashing around the room. They really were much faster than a snitch, Charlie thought, as he ducked out of the way. If they hadn't been hiding in their holes, he would have had a much harder time catching them!

Several of the girls shrieked and started giggling as the fairies landed in their hair—apparently the tiny creatures were quite good at identifying people who liked them, and would exploit that for all it was worth.

Kettleburn cleared his throat. "Now then. Oh, calm down, they're harmless—just stop dodging and they'll settle on your shoulders or something."

Charlie remembered the last time he had listened when Kettleburn had made similar reassurances; a fruit bat had peed on his head. At least fairies would probably know better, he suspected, so they would only do that sort of thing deliberately. Well, better not ask about it—if they really _did_ understand English, it would only give them ideas.

"Ahem. Yes, they're very cute, but if I may have your attention once more? Excellent."

Kettleburn pulled the cloth off of the table, revealing an intricate wooden device. It was as wide as the table and twice as long. A large roll of paper was attached at one end, fed into it and across a flat surface, then trailed off out the other end. Some sort of printing device? It had twenty or thirty needle-like bits that touched down on the paper and were presumably pens. All around it were countless little levers and knobs, all labeled, if at all, with numbers or cryptic abbreviations.

"All right!" Kettleburn clapped his hands. "Come on up, gather around the table so you can see . . . good, good. Now I'm sure you can guess what this is for—"

He was interrupted by several murmured "no"s and "we can?"s, and looked disappointed.

"No? Does this help?" He pulled on a little flared, conical bit, and it came away revealing a long tube connecting it to the device. It looked like the part you talked into, off of one of Charlie's dad's old muggle telephones. "Hm? In the interest of time, I will tell you this whole thing is called a Multi-scribe, it produces a visual representation of sounds spoken into this thing here," indicating the receiver-like cone, "Hogwarts only has one of them at the moment, and it would be rather expensive to repair or replace." Kettleburn looked at the students sternly, letting this sink in.

Charlie presumed 'only has one of them' implied there used to be more so that students could get hands-on experience, but they got broken. He could just see Kettleburn holding the receiver in on hand and some unhappy creature in the other, trying to goad it into screeching or squawking or whatever . . .

A boy raised his hand. "Will this be on the exam? I mean, the textbook didn't—"

"Well, _I_ will base part of your grade on it. But no, your N.E.W.T.s will not involve knowledge of a Multi-scribe. The textbook is representative of what the Ministry thinks you should know about fairies, and if any questions about them come up, you may safely parrot back whatever the book says and be assured of full marks for those questions." Several students looked dubious about this answer—the closer the N.E.W.T.s got, the more everyone fretted when Kettleburn went off on apparent tangents, regardless of the fact that his students had, historically, always gotten very good marks.

"Now, if you would stop worrying about the test for a moment? Good. Let's try this thing, shall we?" Kettleburn pulled the receiver out a few more feet, flipped a few switches, and adjusted some knobs, all the while giving an explanation that even Charlie barely understood. The professor, apparently satisfied, then pointed at one of the fairies. "Pignut—would you come over here and talk into this for us? Wonderful!" The fairy flew over and landed in his outstretched hand, then waited expectantly as Kettleburn flipped a slightly larger switch. The Multi-scribe whirred, maybe two dozen of the pens began twitching, and after a few jerks the paper started rolling smoothly through at a pace of several inches per second. As soon as Kettleburn held the receiver up to the fairy, she started in twittering, and the pens drew complicated patterns on the paper.

Now that she was the center of attention, Pignut began pacing back and forth on Kettleburn's palm, looking very serious and gesturing as if giving a lecture. She pulled off an excellent impression of the old professor, actually, and most of the class was laughing. Kettleburn maintained his amiable smile, although a few twitches in it suggested he really _could_ understand the fairy and found her speech a bit embarrassing.

About a minute and many feet of paper later, he shut the machine off, cast a paper-cutting spell, and sticking-charmed the output of Pignut's speech onto part of the blackboard. Charlie recognized the bottom two thirds as a sort of spectrogram, similar to the "pictures" of bird calls in a muggle field guide he had. The top third just involved a bunch of lines, most straight.

The following fifteen minutes saw the class huddled around the blackboard, eyes glazed over as Kettleburn pointed at patterns no one else could make out while giving a thoroughly abstruse lecture about secondary wing-formants, magical sound-signature onsets, pteroalveolar coarticulation, and cross-species psychoacoustic differentials. Charlie had occasionally stood outside the door during some of Babbling's and Vector's N.E.W.T-level classes. He had felt similarly at sea, listening to those, as he did now. If the other students were waiting until later to ask Charlie to explain it to them (and some of them probably were), they were in for a disappointment.

Throughout this, Kettleburn had been facing away from them, enthusiastically pointing things out. When he finally turned around and saw the students' expressions, he stopped short.

"I suppose that _was_ a bit much all at once, wasn't it? Don't worry, it won't be on the exam." He smiled, reassuringly, and everyone visibly relaxed. "I probably ought to go over some of the reading, though, just to be sure."

He had the class return to their seats and started in asking questions about fairy reproduction. This _was_ probably the biggest difference between fairies and humans, and was by far the primary concern of commercial fairy breeders. Apparently fairies would only lay their eggs on the leaves of certain plants, only when the temperature was in the right range and the daylight lasted long enough, and only when any number of other circumstances were right.

After several minutes of this topic, most of the fairies were hovering around Kettleburn's head, sounding upset about something. He ignored them until they moved to block his view of the class. He stopped speaking and listened to them briefly, eyebrows raised.

He ducked under the fairies briefly, waving them away from his head. "Pignut gave me trouble about this last year, too, so I imagine it's the same thing again. I doubt she remembers it, though, so you never know. Please excuse us."

Then, standing up and looking at the fairies: "if you would stop this nonsense of talking all at once, you know, I would be more inclined to listen to you." About half the fairies shut up. "Oxeye, Thorn-apple, Snowdrop—stop that! You never have anything serious to say and you know it. Pignut, what is this about?" He listened for a full two minutes as Pignut twittered in agitation, waving her arms around and repeatedly pointing at her crotch.

"Oh, and how do you know that?" he asked.

Further twittering. Pignut had evidently said something funny, since the other fairies were laughing. Some of them turned to look at the class, scanning their faces as if looking for someone in particular. Charlie tried to look inconspicuous.

Kettleburn eventually held up his hand. "Enough! Very well. What precisely do you want me to tell them? . . . And you will all then leave me alone for the rest of the class?" He turned his gaze to the other fairies, then waited for Pignut to finish again. He waved his hands until they flew a few feet off and he could see the class again.

"If some of you were more _discreet_ , I would not be having this problem." He pretended to look stern, or at least something approximating it. "They insist that, in matters of reproduction, everything up to the point of laying eggs is the same between humans and fairies, which is not quite true—What? Well, it's not, even if it looks that way!" He was talking to the fairies again, several of whom were eyeing each other. "I will not allow you to do that in my classroom, and that's final!" Then, to the class: "Let's see if this is acceptable. This is as direct a translation as I can manage—'the fun part is the same'." He glanced at the fairies, who twittered a bit, then nodded as if pleased, before darting back to the class to sit on the shoulders of students and fiddle with their hair.

Now that Kettleburn's original lesson plan was derailed, one of the deeply-interested muggleborn girls raised her hand, asking "how do you know their names? Did you see them all before and name them, or did you just make all that up? Sorry, I mean, name them on the spot."

Kettleburn sighed, presumably deciding he would have to finish with this tangent in order to get to anything else. "The translations are quite literal, I assure you. And yes, I have met all of these fairies before. The short answer is that I know their names because they are terrible pests who know I will pay attention to them." Laughter. "It's true! I have been dragged all around the castle grounds over the years, being forced to learn the fairy names of all manner of plants. So here we have Pignut, who was in my classroom last year, along with Snowdrop, Oxeye, Thorn-apple, Bracken, Cabbage, and Treacle-mustard."

"Ow!" shouted a boy from the back of the room. "Little bastard bit me. Ow! Owww! Stop it!" He was waving one hand around, while clutching his bleeding nose with the other.

Kettleburn took out his wand and hovered an angry fairy out of reach of the students. "Well," he said, "I have to say I side with Treacle-mustard on this one. You shouldn't laugh at anyone's name. What if it had been a hippogriff? Ten points from Ravenclaw, and go see Madam Pomfrey." Kettleburn, under the healer's instructions, never tried to treat non-critical wounds himself, due to the risk of closing skin over an infection or poison.

Charlie was still doubtful about the supposed intelligence of the fairies—he had read too many stories of "intelligent" animals turning out to be hoaxes. If you put a dog in a human body, he thought, it would be awfully hard to remember it was a dog. Charlie was trying to come up with valid intelligence tests for fairies when the boy with the bleeding nose opened the door, disrupting the silencing charm that had kept out the sounds of crowing.

"Brk-Skrawk! Bruk."

Kettleburn whipped out his wand and dashed into the hall. A moment later he was preceded back in by a loudly-protesting, hover-charmed rooster, which he stuffed into the cage while it pecked violently at his artificial hand.

"Can't waste that, can we? Let's take a poll—if I turned on all the magic-recording pens on the Multi-scribe . . . here . . . here . . . and here, and started it up, how many of you think we would see anything magical about the rooster's crowing? I'll give you a moment to think about it while I get ready." He pushed the cage right up to the Multi-scribe, pulled the receiver back out, and trained his wand on the rooster. "Okay, show of hands—who thinks we'll see something magical register? Two, four, five, six, eight . . . looks like nine. Yes Charlie?"

"Are you going to use a spell to make it crow? Because that might bias the results."

"Good point. I was going to, but I bet we can irritate this guy without it. Let's see the 'yes's again—anyone change their answer if I don't use a spell? No? And who thinks we'll just see straight lines, all the way? Three, five, hm, nine, eleven. I notice lots of you have no idea—that's okay, I don't either. Any quibbles with my experimental design before we begin? No?"

Kettleburn flipped a lever and the machine hummed back to life. Then, he switched the receiver to his natural hand and started poking at the rooster through the bars with his artificial one. Once it was thoroughly agitated he withdrew, and, sure enough, it let loose with some satisfyingly loud noises.

"Brawk-k-keroo! Kawk! Kuk."

"Well," Kettleburn said, cutting the paper and sticking it up over Pignut's results, "there you have it. Straight as you please—no magic at all. Huh. I think that's enough for today. For next time, I want twenty inches of wild speculation based on our little experiment here."

 

* * *

 

Normally Kettleburn would just say "class dismissed!", but under the current safety rules it ended with him escorting the entire class down to the Great Hall for dinner, where Charlie would be stuck unless he managed to convince a prefect or professor to take him elsewhere before the meal was over. It was like being five, and back in primary school.

He met up with the twins at the Gryffindor table.

"Charlie!" The twins suddenly looked up at something behind him. "Why is there . . ." He heard the buzzing of wings, and felt something land on his head.

"Charlie," said George, "there is a naked fairy in your hair."

"Yes, I know."

The twins stared at the top of his head.

"It probably wants someone to pay attention to it," said Charlie, "just, don't laugh at it."


	50. Hurled Peas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of last chapter. Pure ridiculousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50 chapters. How the hell did that happen? Around 200k words, too, depending on how you count. More notes at end.

Chapter 50: Hurled Peas

 

Wednesday, January 16, 1991: Evening, The Great Hall, shortly after the appearance of food.

 

 _"Charlie," said George, "there is a naked fairy in your hair."_

 _"Yes, I know."_

 _The twins stared at the top of his head._

 _"It probably wants someone to pay attention to it," said Charlie, "just, don't laugh at it."_

 

It was pretty easy for the fairy to get attention, at least from the twins. She was attractive, naked, and clearly _wanted_ people to look at her.

Fred squinted and leaned forward to get a better look. "Does she have something on her face?"

"Probably human blood," said Charlie, "from the last person who laughed at her."

The fairy looked embarrassed by that, and wiped her face until the brick-red spot of dried blood was gone. She twittered and made several gestures, then flew down to the table. She walked along it, examining the food, occasionally sampling bits and pieces.

She was now standing in front of Lee Jordan, who looked like he wasn't sure whether to look away politely or take every opportunity to stare at her. He settled for quick, side-long glances. She grabbed a handful of mashed potatoes from his plate and looked up at him while eating it.

"She's not a very neat eater, is she?" said George.

The fairy stuck her tongue out and turned her back to him, finished the potatoes, and licked her fingers while staring up at Lee. Lee squirmed, because he couldn't politely look away anymore.

"Um, Lee," said Charlie, "you know she is _trying_ to get you to ogle her, right?"

"Yeah," added George, "if you don't she might be offended and bite you!"

The fairy smiled, looked at George, and playfully bared her teeth and snapped them at him.

"Look at that!" said Fred, "thoroughly ungrateful, she is! I guess she doesn't want to obtain her lascivious ogling by means of threats of violence." The fairy turned to look at Fred now, cocked her head, then looked back at George, then back at Fred. "Hah! She noticed we're twins. I guess we don't all look alike to them? Charlie, how much do they understand? Is it all tone of voice?"

"That's a real puzzle. Kettleburn thinks everything understands English perfectly, so he's no help. And she _looks_ like us, right?"

Fred nodded. "Except for the wings, being naked . . ."

". . . and glowing," finished George.

 

"Right. I think, you know, humans _want_ to believe animals are like us—it's just easier that way? Have you ever tried reading the Daily Prophet to an owl? Or, better yet, a dog? You do something like that and it will cock its head back and forth trying to figure out what you are doing, and look _very_ intelligent in the process. So you assume it understands. But dogs are awesome at reading human body language, because they kind of co-evolved with us, and fairies did too, I assume." The fairy certainly _looked_ like Charlie was making sense to her. "And body language plus tone of voice is worth a lot—think of how much you use it in a really noisy environment where you can't hear."

"So what you're saying," said George, "is we should test her."

Fred made a mock-determined expression. "Right, then. Okay, fairy, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

She looked confused.

"Must not have read ahead," explained George. "What is Gamp's Third Law of Elemental Transfiguration?"

The fairy found a large buttered pea and hurled it at George's face.

"Wow!" said Fred, "that would have gone straight in your eye if you hadn't dodged. Charlie, do you think you could teach fairies to play Quidditch? This one would be an awesome chaser."

"I don't know," said George, "that might have been a lucky throw."

"True, true. We will just have to repeat the test. Ack!" He dodged another flying pea, "Just not with my face as the hoop, okay? What if we made her a little hoop? Are you done with that pork chop?"

Fred grabbed the bone off his twin's plate, took out his wand, and concentrated for a moment. After a couple of tries he had a satisfactory fairy-sized wire hoop that stood two feet off the table, at least if you held its legs down with some dishes.

"You should make a little quaffle for her, too!" said Oliver, who had been studiously pretending none of this was happening, but couldn't resist anyone talking about Quidditch. "Here, let me . . ." He took out his wand and turned a pea into a tiny quaffle. "Okay, fairy—Charlie, does she have a name?"

"Yes, but the last person to laugh at it is with Madam Pomfrey right now. Got that? This is Treacle-mustard." The fairy nodded, confirming. "I could tell which one she was by the human blood on her face when she came in here." Charlie wasn't looking, and got hit on the side of the head with a pea. "Fine, I suppose I deserved that. Anyway, by all means carry on." He sat back, indicating that this was anybody's show but his, so no one should blame him when it ended in disaster.

"Great! Okay, Treacle-mustard," said Oliver, who was far less interested by the name than the prospect of playing Quidditch at the table, "have you ever watched a Quidditch match before?" The fairy nodded; Charlie raised his eyebrows. Everyone but Oliver looked startled. "Awesome. So, I don't have a sticking charm on this quaffle, and we've got only one hoop, but you get the idea, right?" The fairy continued to look like she understood. "Okay," he said, gesturing for her to get in the air, which she did. "Catch!"

Oliver tossed the quaffle a little high and to the left of her. She darted up and caught it with both hands. "Nice! Maybe you could be a keeper, too? So, how about you go down the table a bit and start taking shots—see how far away you can go and still get one through from, all right?"

"Bloody hell, Oliver!" said Lee, "she's actually doing it!"

"Now, while I admit I'm impressed," said Charlie, watching as one of the twins caught the quaffle with a hover charm after the fairy's throws, then returned it to her, "I don't think coaching a fairy is a fair comparison to coaching Fred and George next year."

 

"He's right!" said George. "Just because she's good with the quaffle . . ."

". . . doesn't mean she'd be a good beater." The twins both nodded. "So obviously . . ."

". . . you need to make her a little beater's bat and have her hit peas at Alicia and Angelina."

 

The twins later agreed that this was one of the best bad ideas of theirs that they had ever gotten Oliver to go along with.

 

Alicia and Angelina were sitting fifteen feet down the table or so, on the far side of Oliver from Lee and the twins. Once Oliver had determined that Treacle-mustard could, in fact, use a tiny beater's bat to direct a pea pretty much wherever he indicated (through the hoop from five feet off, or at Lee's nose from seven), somehow trying for the chasers actually seemed like a good idea.

 

"Hey! Cut it out!"

"Ow!"

"Wait . . ."

"What the?"

"Is that a fairy?"

"Ow!"

"Okay, you . . ."

"It's so cute!!! Oww!"

"Oh, come on! Okay, fairy, let's play a game. We'll all throw things at the boys, and you decide whether to block them. Sound good?"

"No fair! We were just using peas!"

"Carrots go with peas." Alicia smirked, looking unrepentant.

"Yeah," added Angelina, "and so do mashed potatoes!"

 

Peas, when struck by a tiny bat, deformed a little, but could take a few hits.

Cooked carrots, at least done the way British house-elves thought proper, fell apart, pieces flying in all directions.

Mashed potatoes were not amenable in any way to blocking via beater's bat, fairy-sized or no.

 

* * *

 

"Minerva, that looks confined to your house. I think you had better go put a stop to it before it spreads."

"Of course, Albus."

 

There was a food fight going on in the middle of the Gryffindor table. Minerva had seen a lot of food fights over the years, and between the colors flying around and the various styles of overhand throws, she pegged it for peas, carrots, and mashed potatoes. Her students were usually good about not wasting meat—unlike some other houses—but they _were_ creative. She knew from experience that, left alone, sooner or later spoons would get turned into improvised launchers, and eventually someone would start in on the gravy and pumpkin juice, charming them to squirt and splash in a directed fashion. That was usually a sort of point of no return, where no matter how careful everyone had been so far, things had escalated to a level at which the Ravenclaw table was no longer safe.

Of course it was centered on the Weasley twins. Of course. Why had she even bothered to wonder? And they had a fairy with them, which was darting into the path of the food over and over again. Well, at least they weren't aiming _at_ it . . . if someone had charmed it, though, they were in serious trouble!

Oh, good, at least a few children saw her coming, and tried to get the others to stop . . . too little, too late. Fine.

"WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON HERE!"

"Oh, hi Professor McGonagall! We were teaching the fairy to play Quidditch! Did you see her? She's awesome!"

Silence.

Oliver's expression began as full-on enthusiasm, then fell into a grimace of chagrin. Everyone looked at him in amazement, then back at McGonagall. The Ravenclaws had turned around to watch, too, now. Oliver looked like he wanted to slide under the table and stay there. The fairy—naked and covered in mashed potatoes and bits of carrot—was looking at her, too, she noticed, with the same expression of earnest worry as the rest of the students. Probably not charmed, then.

It was at this point that she saw the fairy-sized Quidditch hoop and the little beater's bat in its hand.

 

 _Keep a straight face._

 _Do not laugh._

 _Do not let the corners of your mouth twitch._

 _Do not bite your cheeks or tongue—everyone is looking straight at you, someone will notice, and you will need to speak intelligibly soon._

 _Stand there silently if you must, but if you laugh, you have lost._

 _Take a deep breath._

 _If you do absolutely nothing, they will just remain scared of you for a few more seconds, and that's probably a good thing._

 _Do not laugh!_

 

She took her eyes off the fairy. It was just too ridiculous-looking.

 

"Weasley, Weasley, and Weasley, come with me. The rest of you . . . try to clean this up."

There was a chorus of protests.

"No! No 'buts'! I don't want to hear it. Unless you wish to accompany the Weasley brothers to my office, you will stay here and assist one another in cleaning up this mess."

She stalked out of the room, looking behind only to make sure the Weasleys were following her.

"We will go to my office."

 

* * *

 

About four minutes later, she was seated behind her desk. The children had managed to clean themselves up in the meantime. Good.

They were looking at her expectantly.

"Professor Kettleburn's lesson today was about fairies, wasn't it."

Charlie just nodded.

"Madam Pomfrey arrived at dinner late. I presume you know why, Charlie?"

"The boy she bit was making fun of her!"

Fred pretended to look confused. "Madam Pomfrey bit someone?"

Minerva just glared at him.

"Sorry."

"Please don't blame the fairy, Professor. She probably doesn't know anything about school rules, and we kind of encouraged her."

She raised her eyebrows. "We?"

"Um, I don't want to blame anybody else, either. Things just kind of got out of hand gradually."

"I am sure. Mr. Weasley, I regret using this analogy, but the war with the Dark Lord _also_ got out of hand gradually, yet we nevertheless know who started it."

The twins looked at each other.

"It was us, professor! We were teasing her, and she started throwing peas at us . . ."

". . . but she was really good, so we made her a little Quidditch hoop—"

"Stop! This is precisely why I removed the three of you from the Great Hall without further comment. I am sure that whatever explanation you have is utterly hilarious, and makes for a heartwarming tale of friendship between species, and that Sylvanus has given the fairy some adorable little name like Dew-blossom or Moonbeam—"

"Er." Charlie was going to insist on telling her, and from his expression the name was obviously something unusual that would only add to the humor of the story—a story which they would all be able to tell over and over for years to come. Fine.

"What."

"It's Treacle-mustard."

"Ah. Did Sylvanus really come up with that?"

"He claims the fairies all tell him their names."

"Of course, of course." She shook her head. "I am sure, as I was saying, that whatever Treacle-mustard did was also thoroughly adorable. Am I wrong about any of this?"

"No," said Charlie, looking very surprised, "that's . . . correct so far." The twins nodded.

"I am also sure if I got to the bottom of this, I would discover something fascinating and profound about the capabilities of magical creatures when they are determined to be the center of attention. You would no doubt all look less and less at fault, and ultimately it would end with the blame resting firmly on the shoulders of Professor Kettleburn. I don't care. I can tell that _no matter what I do_ , my further involvement in this incident would only somehow lead to further hilarity. In this, I refuse to play along. I will not question you further." She sighed, and glared at them once more for good measure.

"Nevertheless," she continued, "I cannot escape the observation that whenever something like this happens, right in the center of it I find _Weasleys_. Always! I must assign some sort of blame, so I am taking five points from Gryffindor—each. Do not tempt me to deduct more."

Charlie and the twins looked as if they thought they were getting off lightly under the circumstances, and said nothing.

"Excellent. I think I have removed your trouble-attracting presences from the table long enough for everyone else to calm down. If we head back now, we should still be able to get dessert."

 

She really _did_ want to know what had happened. Hopefully she could get the gossip later from one of the other staff members.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing special for chapter 50 -- just ridiculousness. I wanted a break after all that ponderous Dumbledore stuff, which was kind of depressing to write.
> 
> So, the automatic word counting mechanisms on the different hosting sites produce, unsurprisingly, radically different numbers. Two out of three think I have broken 200k words with this chapter. I think even with notes it's close enough. (All agree it is over ~191k, the length of _Goblet of Fire_.) Go me! And, thank you to everyone who has read this far!
> 
> Another fun number is that, by my count, I have so far used 80 characters who had either lines or internal monologue, and at least 61 of them are canon. There are what -- 600-800 total canon characters? I have no idea what's normal for fanfiction.
> 
> Anyway, I forgot to note in the last chapter that the fairy dust is a joke in response to SomeGuyFawkes, who wrote long ago in a review on Ficwad that it was nice to see a time travel device made without using ground-up fairies. I have been waiting to use the ground-up fairies for some time now. I envision it being like the stuff in ramen seasoning packets, except better. For the record, I'm not trying to advocate for or against vegetarianism or anything, nor do I have any idea whether that's what Kettleburn is doing.


	51. Through the Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Just posting what I have to reassure you the story isn't dead.

Chapter 51: Through the Window

 

Wednesday, January 16, 1991

 

"Only fifteen points? I was expecting worse, with that look McGonagall was giving me." Oliver looked relieved.

"I think she was just trying not to laugh," mused Charlie.

"So why'd she just take you three," asked Lee, "and not me or Oliver?"

 

"That," said George, "is because Professor McGonagall wisely recognizes that nothing remotely interesting would happen around here if it weren't for us."

"It worked, didn't it?" observed Fred, pointing around the table. "Everything looks neat and tidy again. Totally justified on her part."

 

Lee looked puzzled. "You want her blaming you?"

 

The twins looked at each other. "It's not so much blaming . . ."

". . . as giving credit where it's due."

 

"So what was the deal with dragging Charlie along, then?"

"Well," said Charlie, while cutting himself a piece of treacle tart, "she knows I get up to all sorts of things she can't catch me at. Bill was the same way. If I do my job right, sooner or later these two will stop getting caught so much, too. They just keep trying different stuff than Bill and I did, and also I've been falling down on the job."

George and Fred looked at each other. "Hey, that's true," said Fred, "you have only half a year left. If you have any brotherly wisdom, you better get to imparting it!"

Charlie grinned. "Well, I _am_ sick of being trapped in the school while everyone pretends moving in groups will stop a basilisk. Want to have a go at the wards? Once we get back, go fetch that book Bill gave you, and we'll try one of the windows on the boys' stairs."

Oliver looked shocked. "Seriously? You're just publicly admitting to it?"

"Want to help?" Charlie grinned even wider at Oliver's look of horror. "Surely you don't think mere students could get through the legendary Hogwarts wards, do you? Even if we _are_ Weasleys."

"So . . ." started Fred, then stopped. The twins looked puzzled. "You figure they would be fun to bang away at, and they are so strong no one will pay attention?"

"Something like that." Charlie looked very interested in his treacle tart. "Where is that fairy, anyway?" He leaned forward to look up and down the table. Treacle-mustard was flying around the chasers and their friends, holding a fork . . . she was actually trying to feed the girls mouthfuls of tart from mid-air. Charlie pointed.

"Huh," said George. "Suppose that's what McGonagall didn't want to see?"

Fred looked thoughtful. "If the fairy comes back, we should send her up to the faculty table to try that."

"I bet Dumbledore would go along with it—Mcgonagall's look would be priceless."

"I don't know," said Lee, "wouldn't Snape just hex the fairy for being cute?"

Charlie looked up at the table. "Oh, we could warn her away from him, and send her over to Sprout or something. Wow. Some of them would just die of embarrassment."

"You mean like Trelawney?" offered Fred. "Actually that's almost too cruel."

"I don't know, you two," said Charlie, "I wouldn't underestimate her. Remember that story about the pigeons?" No one really wanted to follow that train of thought. "Still, I'd pay to see the fairy try to hand-feed McGonagall."

Fortunately for the professors, Treacle-mustard was otherwise occupied.

 

* * *

 

"I just don't see how this could possibly be permitted." Charlie had managed to rope Percy into stopping by their impromptu ward-breaking session on the stairs up the boys' dormitory, saying Bill had made him promise to include all of the Weasley siblings in this sort of thing. "You can't just go attacking parts of the Hogwarts wards on a whim!"

"Mmm." Charlie looked thoughtful for a moment. There was quite a crowd here, which probably made Percy feel a little more comfortable, but it was obviously not enough. "How about this? You know Dumbledore has a zillion little monitoring devices in his office? Do you really think he wouldn't know about it if we actually managed to punch through?"

"So you're saying you expect to get in trouble?"

"No, I expect that the wards are so strong that nothing we could possibly do would make Dumbledore bother coming all the way over here. So it makes them a good target for studying warding charms—we might as well get some benefit out of the damn thing being right against the window now."

"I don't like it."

"So, you can just watch, then. Feel free to report us to McGonagall if we actually succeed at anything. In the meantime, the rest of us are going to study this truly elegant piece of security magic. Oh, come _on_ Percy, how do you think Bill got good enough to land the Gringott's job? You _need_ practical experience for that kind of thing, and this might be the only chance you ever get to try your hand against a ward this powerful without actually getting in trouble for it."

"I think you're just making excuses. If Professor Flitwick thought this was pedagogically sound, wouldn't he have us do it in class?"

"He can't cover everything ever. And what I was hoping to work on tonight—if we could stop arguing—is some fairly specialized magic. Okay?"

"Okay." Percy did not look like he was okay. He folded his arms, and frowned, and stood in the back of the group. But he didn't leave, either.

Charlie had the twins—and then anyone else who wanted to try—cast various revealing charms out the window, letting them see the ward that was keeping them in. He made them identify several properties of it, then asked what spells they would use to try to punch through or take it down if it were weaker (technically, he explained, taking it down entirely was next to impossible without access to the anchor points).

Charlie moved on to his next bit of the lesson by sending a really powerful bolt at the ward, which actually opened a small hole before the ward fixed itself and closed it up again.

"I thought you said that was impossible?" Percy looked like he thought he might have been tricked.

"I said doing any real damage was impossible. I didn't say we couldn't do anything Dumbledore would notice."

 

Fred raised his hand, pretending to be in class. "When you say 'notice' . . ." ". . . what exactly do you mean?"

"Because we've been in the Headmaster's office . . ."

". . . and it is positively full of things that go 'ding!' or buzz or whirr or the like."

"So what we are wondering, then . . ."

". . . is whether something in Dumbledore's office just went 'ding' right then."

 

Charlie smiled. "I'm counting on it!"

The twins produced their 'dawning realization' look, then started cheerfully blasting away at the ward, coming up with more and more ridiculous patterns, many only possible through acting in concert.

It was at this point that Percy rolled his eyes and went off to bed. A few other students followed, deciding that nothing else interesting was going to happen, leaving behind Charlie, the twins, and Lee.

"Nice job," said Charlie. "That should be enough to get him to deactivate any sound effects on the ward monitor. Be back here at, oh, say, half past midnight?"

 

Lee didn't get it yet, but the twins had their mouths open in shock.

 

"You mean, that was all . . ."

". . . with Percy watching, too?"

 

Charlie just grinned. "Go study that book in the meantime. Lee, I'd love to have an extra wand tonight—if you feel like joining us, that is?" Lee still looked puzzled. "Oh, I'll let the twins explain. Anyway, I'll see you all in a few hours."

 

* * *

 

"Great! Thanks for coming, Lee!"

"No problem."

It was dark, and Charlie, Lee, and the twins were huddled around the window. The window itself was of the casement variety, hinging mostly inwards and set in a very thick wall. The ancient glass had only survived unbroken through centuries of Gryffindor boys by means of multiple strengthening spells. While no one cared about heating bills in a magical castle with powerful warming charms, the fact that it was open to the night air in the middle of winter was still noticeable throughout the staircase. Not that Hogwarts was naturally warm in the winter; it wasn't. But no amount of confundus charms would keep all of a hundred-odd students from noticing a draft.

Their first project was simply to block the draft. The twins turned out to be disturbingly adept at indoor weather modification; Lee and Charlie were gratifyingly impressed.

Charlie's plan to clear the ward away from the window was ambitious and required nearly an hour to complete, but at the end of it they had painstakingly pinned the edges of a hole to the sides of the window, stretching the hole from point to point until the ward couldn't close on itself and there was room to pass through.

"Looks good," said Charlie, leaning over and waving his hand where the ward used to be. "That should last until somebody makes a change in the wards again. Not sure how often that happens, but I doubt Dumbledore fiddles with it more than he thinks he has to. Thanks guys—you have no idea how trapped I have been feeling these past few days."

Charlie picked up a bag from the floor, pulled his broom from it and unshrunk it, and slung the bag over his back.

The twins looked at each other. George yawned, and Fred followed suit. "Ah, Charlie," asked Fred, "you're not expecting us to join you, right?"

"It's not my fault if you left your brooms in the Quidditch locker room."

"No, no, that's quite alright," said George. "We're excellent spelunkers now, you see."

Charlie raised his eyebrows.

"But," said Fred, "it's nearly two in the morning, and as much as we hate to admit it . . ."

". . . we actually do have these things called classes which we are expected to go to."

"Oh! That's fine—go ahead and get some sleep, then. The window ought to still be here in the morning. See you tomorrow!" And, with that, he was off. Actually, he climbed onto the sill and jumped off, not using his broom until he was in mid-drop. Lee and the twins had seen that kind of thing before, but it was still pretty unnerving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but I'm sure this is what comes next, so I might as well post it while I'm stuck on whatever follows. Basically I know what I want to cover in the next 10-20 chapters, but have no idea how I want to do it or in what order. I'm not sure that is even worthy of being called "writer's block".
> 
> You should expect updates to be slow at best for probably the next few months. Unless I get some sudden grasp on what to do next, and write a whole bunch all at once. That would be nice, but is unlikely.
> 
> Also, specific to Archive of Our Own: Hey! The word count here just broke 200,000. Go me! (Differences in word counts seem to be based on more than just whether authors notes get counted, and extend to more fundamental and ineffable aspects of automated word-counting.)
> 
> In any event the story isn't dead, I'm not dead, it's just in a period of slow updates. I have way, way too much I want to write about in this story. It is not at risk of abandonment.


	52. Aberforth Dumbledore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at the Dumbledore family. Also there are some goats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General note about comments: Sometimes this story (meaning not just this chapter, but the whole thing) contains non-obvious but awful jokes. Not that anyone has done this, but please refrain from explaining puns and the like in comments.

Chapter 52: Aberforth Dumbledore

 

Friday, January 18, 1991. Early morning.

 

Goats are useful. You can milk them, eat their meat, make leather from their hide, and, for the long-haired kind, spin and weave their hair. Aberforth Dumbledore used his goats for all of these purposes, but mostly for the milk and wool. Not that the Hog's Head was fancy enough to use goat cheese for anything, but he was able to make a little profit on what he couldn't personally use. Quite a bit of the wool had gone to clothes for himself (as well as an inordinate number of socks for his brother).

You can also, it turns out, get in quite a lot of trouble if you enchant your goats the wrong way. When nosy enemies of his brother had been looking for ways to score political points, they had reported Aberforth. He was never sure if they had actually spied on him or not—his guess was 'not', given how careful he was. But the allegations were enough to compel Ministry officials to investigate, and the fact was that he _did_ have a lot of spells on his goats. What sane wizard wouldn't? Goats can get in a lot of trouble, especially in a wizarding village!

While the Ministry couldn't actually identify the charms he had used, Aberforth nevertheless got convicted. The court had reasoned that so much magic on a goat couldn't possibly be consistent with the Statute of Secrecy, which, to be fair, was probably true for most goats under most circumstances. Explaining why his case was different would have involved explaining more than Aberforth cared to reveal, and probably more than the judge would have cared to listen to. At sentencing, the judge fined him and ordered the goats wiped clean of all magic. The prosecutor had wanted some sort of sweeping injunction, too, "to ensure it won't happen again." By that point, though, the judge was so irritated at both sides for wasting the court's time with a ridiculous case that he forced the prosecutor to come up with an enumerated list.

The result, filed with the court several months later, was a ponderous magnum opus of a brief that the prosecutor was angling to get the Wizengamot to pass as statutory law. The judge was not amused, but Aberforth asked for time to check it out, and a week later filed a response saying he wouldn't object to the proposed injunction. The judge decided that getting rid of such an embarrassingly stupid case was more important than doctrinal niceties, and that was that.

There hadn't been anything on the list that Aberforth had even _considered_ using. So, other than a serious overhaul of his wards, it was back to life as usual. The list, though, was hilarious. He got a copy bound up in book form to keep behind the bar—patrons thought it was good for a laugh now and then, especially if they were drunk enough. He had re-titled it, too: "Things Aberforth Dumbledore Is Not Allowed To Do To Goats".

Aberforth's goat barn was attached to the back of the Hog's Head, so he didn't have to go outside to get to it. If _he_ didn't want to go outside, the goats usually didn't either, and today was no exception. It made checking up on them easy in the winter, even if they did get fussy and start eating the walls out of boredom sometimes. He tried to keep the walls upright by relieving their boredom on a regular basis, which is what he was up to this morning.

Aberforth spent a lot of time out here, actually, ostensibly because it kept the goats sane, and in reality because it kept _him_ sane. Humans tended to irritate him eventually. Goats never did. No matter what they chewed on, he at least never had to worry about them coming into his bar and getting drunk and belligerent. Goats don't engage in complicated, destructive political disputes. They don't care about the blood purity of other goats. They don't care about your fashion sense, or personal hygiene, or what other humans thought of you. Goats never become dark lords. And they sure as hell never consider abandoning their families to join up with dark lords, either!

In any event, this morning he was transfiguring a small hill of rock in the center of the barn for the goats to climb on. As with most transfiguration, it wouldn't last forever, but the goats never seemed to have trouble knowing when to get off it before it disintegrated.

He kept a pile of rocks in the corner to use as samples. Today the goats would be playing on simulated Wingate sandstone from the American southwest, which Aberforth had picked up on vacation once because it had a nice, satisfying red color. Or at least, this piece did, so his sculpture today was red, too.

Aberforth had kept up this practice of indoor landscape-building for well over half a century, and by now was skilled enough to have made muggle zoo designers green with envy, had they ever seen one of his creations. The goats were already leaping onto it, squeezing between boulders, fearlessly traipsing along tiny ledges, stepping onto arched bridges that were being created almost directly beneath their hooves, winding their way up to follow the flowing stone towards the rafters, even as its mounds and towers gave way to twisting, forking, narrowing extremities that grew outwards from the sculpture like the branches of an enormous leafless tree.

Aberforth paused, at last, careful not to let the goats get in reach of the actual rafters where they risked harassing the owls. He never got tired of watching how something so apparently unsuited to graceful climbing could nevertheless be breathtakingly nimble and competent at it. The symbolism was not lost on him.

It was not lost on his brother, either, who, along with some barmaids, was one of the only people allowed back in this part of the Hog's Head complex. Aberforth had been too absorbed in his work to notice the faint magical buzz of the wards alerting him to Albus' arrival, but when he turned around and saw Albus silently watching him—as had happened far too many times to count since they were children—Aberforth carefully hid his surprise.

Albus knew he was done now, and looked at him expectantly, obviously preparing to relate some overly-complicated account of some even more overly-complicated situation that would be exactly the sort of thing Aberforth would never get himself into. At least Albus was sensitive enough to avoid stating the obvious—the sculpture for the goats was stunningly beautiful, and the goats' ability to navigate it was no less awe-inspiring.

"Hrmf." Aberforth rarely started conversations.

"So," began Albus, "I had a remarkable experience the other day involving one of those chickens you sold to Hagrid."

Ohhhh. Right. That. Aberforth merely raised an eyebrow.

"It seems that someone placed a triggered engorgement charm on some of them, linked to their presence in the Headmaster's suite. It was a very sophisticated bit of magic, in fact—Filius and I were very impressed."

Aberforth continued to stand there, eyebrow slightly raised once more, looking merely curious.

Albus continued: "It left no trace after triggering, of course, so when I woke up on Wedneday to find a four-foot tall rooster on my desk, any evidence of how it got there was long gone. I actually suspected one of the students had done it in a sincere effort to be helpful! But on an untriggered chicken, you see, we found a mild compulsion charm to keep people from investigating it too closely, and a mild compulsion charm on the chicken to seek out my office. It was subtle, delicate, layered magic, and I would never have discovered it had Silvanus not engaged in some . . . experimentation."

Albus paused expectantly; Aberforth waited.

"Very well," Albus said, smiling, "don't ask what kind! It was quite fascinating, though—he actually analyzed the rooster's crow to see if it were magical or not. Care to guess which?"

"Not," said Aberforth, confidently.

"Precisely. But Silvanus, as you know, can't leave well enough alone, and he kept poking at it with diagnostic spells. That of course is too much for magic that relies on staying hidden in plain sight, so to speak. So Silvanus took it to Filius, who eventually identified the enchantment. Without telling me before starting, I might add!"

Aberforth permitted himself a small grin.

"We tested it, of course. The chicken ballooned up as soon as it was past my door—merely standing on the steps wouldn't do. It was impressively precise. So."

"So," echoed Aberforth.

"So," continued Albus, "it has unfortunately not been the only prank involving chickens which I have recently encountered." Aberforth ceased bothering to hide his interest, and was now giving his brother his full attention. "You see," said Albus, who was gesturing enthusiastically, "word of that incident took most of Wednesday to make its way around the entire school. As of last night, roosters have been silenced, amplified, enlarged, shrunk, confused, taunted by illusions, charmed to attack humans, charmed to run away from them . . ." Aberforth was grinning by now. ". . . dyed every color of the rainbow and then some by both magical and non-magical means, and dressed up in some truly adorable little outfits!"

At this last, Aberforth couldn't take it any longer and guffawed. "Clever! Didn't expect that."

"No?"

"No. Seemed like what you always wanted, you know, four-foot tall rooster. Gigantic chicken in your office! Thought you'd appreciate it." Aberforth looked at his brother expectantly, then shook his head. "Wasted! My humor is wasted on you. Always was. I can't be expected to explain it, you know! Wouldn't want to spoil it, right?"

"Come now, I laughed! It was the funniest thing that happened to me this week. I just wish you had anticipated the aftermath."

"Seems harmless enough." Aberforth shooed his brother back into the hallway to the kitchen, giving one last look back to the goats, and locking the door behind them. "If you buy the business with roosters fighting basilisks, I suppose you'd mind, of course. You don't, do you?"

Albus stroked his beard thoughtfully in a manner Aberforth had always found pretentious, and peered interestedly around the kitchen, which looked almost precisely the same as it had the last fifty times he had seen it. "Hm," he said, "I can't say that I don't. The roosters are cheap and distracting, and they improve everyone's spirits. I think we stand a much better chance of fending off a basilisk if the school's morale is high."

Aberforth snorted. "Should have seen that answer coming. Classic, that. Care to join me for breakfast?"

"No, no, I unfortunately am expected to make an appearance."

Aberforth nodded, then, sounding completely serious, said "of course. The Headmaster of Hogwarts can't go disappearing for ordinary reasons like visiting family—he has to have good, adequately mysterious reasons for it!"

"Precisely!" answered Albus, smiling brightly, giving no indication he had understood Aberforth's comment the way it had been intended. Fine, thought Aberforth, be that way. Only Albus could maneuver himself into a conversation where he could be inscrutable in response to sarcasm about his own inscrutability. Aberforth just shook his head. It had always been this way since they were very young.

"Very well," said Albus, pulling his winter cloak more tightly around himself. "Thank you for confirming my suspicions about the roosters—I will be sure not to let anyone else know of your involvement."

After Albus had left, Aberforth was left muttering to himself. "That would require acknowledging my existence, wouldn't it." He trudged upstairs to the sitting room on the second floor.

"Well," he said, waking up his sister's portrait. She had been snoozing in a chair, which he guessed she had taken from some other painting, since it looked out of place in her ivy-covered archway.

"Oh, good morning Abbie!" She smiled, happy to see him. It always made him feel guilty about not visiting this room more. Even though he wasn't sure the portrait had real feelings, the whole point of a wizard portrait was to let you relate to the subject as if they were the real person.

"Albus just stopped by."

"Oh? You should have brought him up here!" She stood up and hid the chair behind the arch, then stood there fidgeting.

"He had to leave again quickly. Didn't want the school to see he was missing and have to explain he had a brother."

"Abbie, stop that! You know Albus is busy. He has always cared about us, even when . . ."

"I know, I know. In his own way. He asked me about the roosters."

"Oh! I had forgotten about that." She grimaced in disapproval. "I do wish you hadn't done that. It was horribly mean."

Aberforth shrugged "It was as I predicted. Too oblivious to think about it much. Or at all. Hmph." The portrait looked doubtful. "No, he wasn't acting. Too much effort to go to, pretending not to care just to ruin the prank. Oh, you know he'd get me back some other way!"

Ariana grimaced in what Aberforth took as her conceding the point.

"No," Aberforth said, "just wanted to make sure it was me, not a student, so he could forget about it."

"Oh. So he wasn't mad?"

"I told you, he doesn't think like that! Waste of a good prank, too."

"I don't think it's better to pick on someone if they don't know you are doing it. It doesn't make it better. You are still being mean!" She looked thoughtful for a moment, then cringed in embarrassment. "And it was in really awful taste, too—even for you."

"Hmph. Taste. Hmph. Tastes like chicken!" Okay, that got a laugh out of Ariana. "Ought to be able to take a joke. Usually can. It was too good to pass up!"

Arianna pursed her lips in disapproval. "I still don't think that's a good reason for doing something like that." She looked embarrassed. "I wish you would stop with . . . that kind of humor. Ever since Gelly . . . it's not fair. You don't even know!"

Aberforth sighed. The explicit mention of Gellert brought up old, bad memories and made him feel a little guilty for pranks undertaken at his brother's expense. He had argued about this many times before with his sister's portrait—portraits were very predictable conversationalists, at least once you have had them around for enough decades. They also didn't know when to leave well enough alone. Or, maybe that was just little sisters. It didn't matter.

"He . . ." Arianna started in, nervously. "He—you—someone should go see him. I wish you would go see him. It can't do any harm, and it has been so long!"

Powerful wizards tended to have long lives, and Gellert Grindelwald and the Dumbledore brothers were no exceptions. No news ever came from Nurmengard—Aberforth supposed Gellert had access to stationery and the like and could send letters from prison if he so chose, but the situation seemed to be one of voluntary isolation. Not that anyone actually wished to go visit the former dark lord.

They were all too embarrassed, Aberforth thought. Everyone had done something in the war that they regretted, and everyone wanted to forget. At least, he hoped Gellert was ashamed of himself. The boy hadn't started out evil—he just lived in his head too much and built all his grand schemes there first, without anyone to tell him they were bad ideas until he had gone ahead and implemented them. He was exactly like Albus in that respect, except Albus had marginally more common sense, and had friends who could drag him back to reality when he needed it. They had seemed very much alike, back then—Aberforth had unique perspective on that, having sat up at night listening to them talk so many times.

No, Gellert might have become evil, but more likely he simply did the wrong things at the wrong times, made poor choices of friends, and justified it all to himself as being "for the greater good". Many wizards did made similar justifications for minor, every-day evils, but Gellert had enough power that the consequences of his bad decisions were far more terrible than those of the average wizard. It was a good explanation, Aberforth thought, although he also thought it was a good justification for keeping Grindelwald locked up in Nurmengard, no matter how much he had repented. He was just too dangerous.

By now, nearing the end of the Twentieth Century, the consensus of historians was that many of the atrocities committed in the war had had nothing to do with Grindelwald. He had, it was believed, paid very little attention to the muggle side of the war, and spent most of his time preoccupied with his own idiosyncratic agenda. His advisors were either happy to keep him in the dark, or were too scared of him to express anything that could be construed as dissent. Everyone agreed Gellert had become a vicious little monster in those limited aspects of the war he concerned himself with, and everyone agreed he _should_ have kept better tabs on his supposed muggle allies, but that didn't mean he couldn't have repented by now. It had been a long time. Aberforth, though, much like the rest of the wizarding world, had little interest in actually asking Grindelwald about any of that. So the dark lord stayed in prison, and the world stayed outside, and Aberforth liked to think everyone was happier this way.

Ariana's potrait did not agree. She remembered the times Gellert had been nice to her, and seemed fixated on the idea that Albus or Aberforth should go visit him. Albus, characteristically, would smile and hide his emotions, saying "perhaps some day, when I am not so busy", whenever she thought to bring up the topic. She couldn't grasp the complexities of why he might not want to go, of why it might be a bad idea, and Aberforth was sure there were reasons Albus wasn't telling them.

Of course, if Albus Dumbledore ever stopped acting secretive about something, his friends and family would immediately suspect polyjuice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! I have a chapter, so I'm posting it. Once again, I'm not dead, the story isn't dead, etc., etc.
> 
>  
> 
> I started writing this story a little over a year ago, in mid-December 2010. I didn't expect to have so many words written by now, nor to get so many readers as I have gotten. I had certainly hoped I had set up something that could be an ongoing sort of writing project, so I'm pretty pleased with myself to still be updating, if infrequently. Thank you all for reading!!!
> 
>  
> 
> About this chapter:
> 
> Again, please let people work jokes out on their own -- don't spoil things in comments.


	53. Plotting In Two Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of Fred and George, then a look at the Hufflepuff common room.

Chapter 53: Plotting In Two Houses

 

Friday, January 18, 1991. Morning.

 

"They were boring."

"How often did you check?"

"Just twice. They were asleep both times, so it didn't seem worth it," said Fred, yawning. "Also, it was just plain weird."

"Tsk, tsk. Come now, Fred, staying awake to watch Snape sleep isn't creepy at all!"

 

The twins were huddled together in their room in the dorms, after waiting for everyone else to leave. Dora had passed them a note at the end of dinner yesterday, asking them to keep an eye on Snape and Quirrel, since the twins were "in the best position to do it of anybody," and there were some things she was wondering about. "Let me know as soon as possible if you see either of them unusually close to someone else, or if they leave the castle unexpectedly," it had said, "but for Merlin's sake don't get it into your heads to follow them around in person! Leave that to me or Sirius. Oh, and never make eye contact with Snape, or with Dumbledore if he does the twinkly-eye thing. Can't have them using legilimency on my spies. Oh, I suppose you should avoid eye contact with Quirrel for good measure. I have no idea what to offer in return, so I'll have to owe you one — thanks!!!"

If Dora hadn't been Sirius' cousin, they would have perceived this as blackmail about their possession of the map. After some discussion, though, they had decided Dora's request counted as close enough to doing the Maruaders' own work, and besides, they could be creative about cashing in on that favor later.

 

So they spied on Snape and Quirrel. Yesterday evening, a prefect escorted three girls to Snape's office hours. That had seemed promising, and the girls were there for nearly an hour, but none of them got 'unusually close'. Quirrel just sat in his room the whole time. After losing a coin toss, Fred had set a silent alarm spell to wake himself up periodically.

 

"I wonder," said Fred, as they stared at the map one last time before heading down to the common room, "if Sirius—"

"—Padfoot."

"Right. I wonder if Mr. Padfoot knows some way to get it to remember what it shows?"

George thought for a moment. "Probably not. Something that amazingly useful ought to be obvious once you got the map working. You could just spy on everybody, even if you missed something . . ."

Fred nodded, considering the possibilities. "We'll ask him, just in case. I'm sure he'd want to know if Snape got 'unusually close' to anyone, too!"

"Ha!" said George, as he took the map from Fred and peered at it. "Do you think, maybe . . ."

". . . this was his idea?"

"Well, he hates Snape. Why Quirrel, though?"

Fred scratched his head. "That _is_ the puzzle. _Everyone_ would want to know if _Snape_ were having an affair—"

Both of them stopped for a moment, grimacing at the thought.

"Of course," said George, "without following them on foot, we just have the map for evidence."

"Which," Fred observed, "is no evidence at all. Hm. I bet Quirrel's just a distraction."

"Could be Snape is the distraction, just to motivate us," countered George.

"True, true. He can be very distracting in class, at least. I believe if we are going to do this right, we will have to spy on everyone ever now, just to be sure no valuable gossip is missed."

"Clearly!"

"I don't mean go out of our way, of course," said Fred. "Just, you know, if we _do_ spot something . . ."

George nodded.

"So . . ." said Fred, looking thoughtful. "We'd better get this straight: If we catch Snape . . ."

". . . in a broom closet . . ."

". . . with Trelawney . . ."

". . . then it's not our department," said George, "and Dora gets to track that one down without our . . ."

". . . interference?" suggested Fred. "What _is_ our department anyway?"

"Oh, I don't think we should say — although gossip-related mischief is probably not, uh — what is it Percy would say?"

"Not our core . . ."

". . . competence! Right. I think that was it, when he was trying to get Ginny to do his chores."

Fred imitated Percy: "'I think it best if I delegate tasks which lie outside of my core competencies.'"

"What a prat."

"To be fair, he apologized. Eventually."

They paused for a moment, considering this.

"Anyway," said Fred, "I think anything exploding, changing color, or growing feathers is definitely in."

"Good enough," said George, shrugging. "So if it's Madam Hooch . . ."

". . . and Dumbledore . . ."

". . . we pass it to one of the girls. But only if we feel like it."

"Right. That, O brother, sounds like a plan where we might cause a reasonable amount of mayhem while expending very little effort."

"Precisely," said George, tapping his wand to the map. "Mischief managed!"

* * *

Secrets, in the absence of magic, are notoriously difficult to keep.

In the presence of magic, it is another story.

The desire to keep information to oneself, or to control its distribution, is a fundamental human trait, and a really staggering amount of human mental capacity is devoted to it. Wizards are absolutely no exception, and, over the millennia, have devised so many magical means of preserving secrecy that a Charms class could spend a year on it and barely scratch the surface. Like most magic, it is mostly useless, but when applied competently in the appropriate situations, it can be immensely powerful.

Hogwarts was positively steeped in it, in the same way it was steeped in nearly every other type of magic, and most of the time it was all undetectable.

Tonks had often wondered why so few students had known about the Room of Requirement in either of her two timelines. The place was so insanely useful that knowledge of it really ought to have been passed around more, but it seemed like even the professors didn't know about it, and students either discovered it by accident or learned about it from each other in ones or twos. Even then they rarely discovered its full capabilities, and mostly had it re-use the form they originally found it in.

Faced, however, with a situation the room would be really useful for, Tonks declined to share it with anyone. She didn't think this was due to any magic inherent to Hogwarts, although she spent a while seriously considering that possibility. In reality she just preferred to keep a secret resource secret. Alastor, no doubt, would be pleased with her. He would not have been all that pleased with her little massed-shields trick, though, and would have given her a lecture about the perils of revealing knowledge she had no explanation for.

And he would have been right. Not only could Tonks not plant the seeds of a future resistance by training kids herself, but she probably had to make her plans seem like someone else's ideas. For now that was utterly inconsistent with the distraction of teaching anyone about the Room of Requirement.

After the stand-off with Slytherin on Tuesday, Tonks had made an offhand remark to a prefect about teaching the younger Hufflepuffs some basic defensive magic (and then carefully dropped the subject for a day). Professor Eeles was excellent at teaching theory and strategy, and was enthusiastic about driving home his points with hands-on demonstrations, but he made few attempts to put it all together in any practical way.

There was nothing particularly odd about this — Eeles was still one of the best Defense teachers Tonks had had while at Hogwarts — but getting the students to the point of being useful in a serious fight between wizards was far more work than Eeles had signed up for. Heck, it took over a year of training at the Auror Academy before recruits were sent out into the field at all, even for stupid stuff. The average wizard had no interest in fighting, so even a small amount of practice could give an opponent a nearly insurmountable advantage.

Slytherins were, straightforwardly enough, more aggressive than Hufflepuffs. They picked more fights than Hufflepuffs, and through this they trivially wound up getting more practice at fighting than Hufflepuffs. This, as Tonks saw it, was a fairly straightforward problem, and a perfect excuse to set in motion some of the schemes which, in theory, she had been sent back in time to undertake. It was also about the only thing she could easily do with the school in lock-down mode — she was sure Harry would be out in the halls every night chasing Quirrel around, but unlike Harry, Tonks didn't think she'd get rescued by Fawkes if the basilisk showed up.

She had been much warier about sending letters after Luna's trick with retaining the owl — it would be too easy to track her somehow if she didn't find better ways to anonymize herself. Post owl magic didn't rely on appearance, so she couldn't just disguise herself — she was always just Tonks, to an owl (normally that was a reassuring thing). There were a few notes overdue for sending, though, so she would eventually need to just pour the privacy and security charms on, take a deep breath, and get back to contacting people again. She might have to ask Sirius for help when she saw him next weekend in Hogsmeade, assuming Dumbledore didn't decide to cancel that, too.

* * *

On Wednesday evening, in the Hufflepuff common room, she sought out the prefect she had spoken to earlier. Glenn, the prefect, was studying by himself in a chair next to the fire. Tonks sat lightly on the chair's arm and tried to figure out how to make him see things her way.

He turned around, a little awkwardly, to look up at her. "Um, hi there . . . What's up?"

Tonks took a deep breath. "So," she began, "that incident with the Slytherins yesterday . . ."

"What about it? I thought Flitwick and Dumbledore dealt with it well enough."

"What if they hadn't been there?" She hadn't mean to be so direct, but if Glenn was giving her the opening, she might as well use it.

"I really don't know," said Glenn, shrugging. "I suppose it could've gone pretty badly — those shields weren't really enough — but it's not like a major fight would break out in the Great Hall." Tonks looked doubtful. "Okay, fine — what are you getting at?", he asked.

"Nothing specifically. Well, just, teachers and prefects aren't always there every time the Slytherins try to pick a fight, or, um, goad us into one. And, it seems like . . . hm. Do you think maybe with the basilisk out, the Slytherins think they can get away with more? I think that's what I'm really worried about."

Glenn narrowed his eyes and frowned, considering that. "I mean, I assume so . . . they certainly seemed louder than usual, and not like after a Quidditch match, either. From where I was sitting it looked like there were a few — well, maybe half — of them who were actually looking for trouble, and the rest were just making fun of us."

Tonks grinned. "If you put it that way, it sounds just like how they acted without the basilisk!" She noticed a few students look up from a nearby couch when she raised her voice. Was that good or bad? She wasn't sure.

"This was more . . . I don't know." Glenn paused, searching for words. "Everyone feels like something's going on, which I suppose it is? But I don't remember having both tables with wands drawn on each other before. That's a new low."

"Do you think we should expect them to do it again?"

Glenn looked confused. "What difference would that make? I'm not sure what you're asking."

"Argh, sorry," said Tonks, "it's just, if the teachers hadn't been there, and it came down to a fight, I don't think we would have won."

Glenn shook his head, unconvinced. "Sure, by ourselves, but Ravenclaw and Gryffindor would have stepped in."

"Yeah, Glenn," interrupted one of the students from the couch, "but even before the basilisk, they just waited until there weren't so many people around. My year has potions with them, and they're always awful when Snape isn't looking."

"They keep saying 'badgers!' under their breath when they think he can't hear!" added another student. Tonks had been over-hearing 'badgers!' a lot,, too, but had so far listened to the voice of Moody in her head telling her not to let it get to her.

"And," added a third, "he just takes off points if we fight back!"

"Do you fight back?" asked Tonks, turning away from Glenn to face everyone on the couch.

"Not really," said one of them. The poor kid looked pretty downcast about it, and she hoped she hadn't sent the wrong message.

"Sorry," said Tonks, "I didn't mean you always ought to — I think that came off wrong." The other students nodded and shrugged. "But what if, say, you thought you were really in danger? Like, if they got worse?"

"So what are you saying?" Now there were several students hanging around the conversation, leaning on the back of the couch, trying to decide if it was going to be interesting enough to find a seat on the floor and commit to joining in.

"I'm not saying anything in particular," said Tonks, trying not to sound defensive. "I guess I'm wondering out loud how safe we all feel, and whether there's anything we can do . . . I mean, Defense class doesn't really teach anyone how to defend themselves, but the Slytherins mostly only have just a little more experience fighting than we do, and that's just because they pick the fights." She worried that she was being too obvious. Of course, consensus-based decision-making was normal for Hufflepuffs, so everyone else probably just assumed she was trying to be polite (which unfortunately was different from overlooking who originated ideas).

"So you want us to practice fighting?" asked one of the on-lookers.

"No! Not unless everyone wanted to, and thought it was a good idea." Tonks looked around, and decided to clarify. "I mean, practice defending yourselves from bullies, not how to fight like a Slytherin!" She grinned; a few students laughed. "We could spend some time outside of class going over what Eeles doesn't teach, to make sure the younger kids are a little safer if the Slytherins decide the basilisk is an excuse to be much worse than usual. We'd have to keep whatever we did secret, of course, or we'd just encourage them." Tonks looked around, trying to get a feel for the mood of the room.

"That thing with the shields was pretty cool," said a second year boy, "we could practice doing that again!" Tonks just smiled, but didn't step in, trying to indicate she was done. This was followed by everybody talking at once.

She leaned down a little towards Glenn, and lowered her voice. "So much for me being subtle. Sorry about that. I was just trying to offer a suggestion, not end up in the middle of a big project." She got off Glenn's chair and moved to the edge of the circle of students, hoping to avoid looking like she was in charge of anything, stepping back and waiting to see what happened next.

* * *

Tonks had been in the Gryffindor common room a few times, and had heard about the Ravenclaw and Slythering ones. Professor McGonagall usually kept her house's room on the small side, because situations almost never came up where most Gryffindors were trying to use it at the same time. They were either up in their dorms, or out making trouble. A room big enough to hold all 200-250 Gryffindors, or however many there were right now, would be visually overwhelming. No matter how you rearranged the furniture to break the space up, the lack of walls left people feeling exposed. So, counterintuitively, more people tried to use the room when it was smaller, and McGonagall didn't feel like fighting human nature in this case.

The Hufflepuff basement solved this seemingly intractable architectural problem by having more than one room in the common area. You couldn't assemble the whole house in one place this way, but Professor Sprout had ensured that everyone felt comfortable in the space, and everyone who wanted a seat could reliably find one.

Sprout had also ensured that there would be room by the light-wells and magically-lit windows for all of the houseplants she didn't want to keep in the greenhouse, or was showing off, or maybe was just experimenting with. In the dark corner behind where Tonks was standing, a huge specimen labeled _Monstera hogwartsii_ twined around a stake as wide as her wrist, going most of the way to the ceiling. Periodically it rustled its wide, deeply-lobed leaves to beckon students over. If you got close enough it would poke you, or maybe tickle you — Tonks was never sure what it was trying to do, and actually found it rather creepy. Plants had no interest in human concepts of personal space or boundaries. Fortunately Sprout had put most of the more "interactive" ones out of reach of furniture.

As a first year, Tonks had made the mistake once of falling asleep in a chair next to an innocuous-looking cycad. She had woken up an hour later to find it — literally — "rooting" around in her pockets while it placidly chewed the last page of her homework. She had screamed; the plant had gone "whuf!" and continued chewing. Attempts to retrieve the last bits of paper from its mouth, or whatever that was, resulted in Tonks getting snarled at. Sprout had scolded her for feeding it junk. Tonks didn't sit there, or next to any unfamiliar plant, ever again.

She felt ambivalent about being back at Hogwarts. She loved the Hufflepuff basement — during the day, bright natural (and magical) light complemented the plants and cheerful yellow furniture and carpets. At night, gleaming copper fixtures shone in the light of gas lamps and fireplaces. There was always someone around to talk to, and always a quiet corner where you could find privacy when you needed it. She had spent seven years of her life here, minus vacations, and had been unexpectedly, bizarrely, confusingly, given an eighth. It was now halfway over. For all that she lounged around, sat in sunbeams, and tried to drink in the experience, it wasn't the same.

Oh, you _could_ go back. Humans are magnificently adaptable, and whole days went by when she wasn't consciously thinking of her former life. She just never felt fully at ease here anymore, as if its promise of safety and support was a false one because it would come to an end, and she already knew what that end might be like. And out there — in the real world, outside of the self-absorbed microcosm of Hogwarts — there were good things. Wonderful things. Excitement. Opportunities. People she loved.

The camaraderie of the Auror Office was built on shared, intense experiences of a sort Hogwarts could never provide. Or at least, it hadn't when she was a student here. She supposed for Harry things were different. The Auror Corps was small and took very few applicants. She had spent most of her training time with Alastor. Moody was awesome, and fun to work with, and she adored him — cranky paranoia and all — but he wasn't exactly warm and friendly. Tonks had never recaptured the sense of belonging she felt in school.

 

Outside of Hogwarts, the world didn't provide you with a nice menu of options for extracurricular activities. You had to find your own. Tonks had often wondered what her life would have been like without the war — would she have managed to become nearly so interesting a person if she hadn't found herself working with the Order?

She had been lucky to have gone to an interesting school, and lucky to have had an interesting job (even if she would have preferred not to have lived in such interesting times). "Interesting" was not really enough for a fulfilling life, though. Like Hufflepuff house, the Auror Office had people there at all hours, but on the other hand, she hadn't lived in the office either. She had gone back to her apartment at night, and if she woke up at 2 AM and couldn't sleep, it was simply not an option to floo back to the office in her pajamas to chat. The Aurors were not family. Perversely, it wasn't until the Ministry had fallen, and she was living at 12 Grimmauld Place or with Remus, that she felt like she had a family again. Born in the midst of that, Teddy had occupied her full attention . . . Would caring for him have eventually left her feeling isolated? She hadn't been given a chance to find out.

Tonks had run on adrenaline, more or less, for the first few days after catching the snitch. Mentally, emotionally, philosophically — it was just too weird at first, too much of a shock, for her to treat the new timeline as anything other than a strange dream, no matter how much she threw herself into it. Once the reality had sunk in, she had locked herself in her room and sobbed. Then she told herself how grateful she should be for the opportunity she had been given, which didn't make her any less sorry for herself, but _did_ make her feel horribly guilty about it. Ultimately, it was all too complicated for her, and she repressed most of it. Human emotions did not evolve to deal with time travel.

* * *

Tonks had sat on the floor to watch the discussion play out, but her attention had drifted. She wasn't sure how long she had just been staring into the fire while everyone talked around her. A small crowd had gathered, chattering happily. She had given them an exciting, secret project that required everyone from first to seventh years to work diligently together for the benefit of the House. As worrisome as the release of the basilisk was, she could not have engineered a better opportunity on her own.

Harry's little club in the previous timeline had been amazingly successful, both at preparing its members for the war and at building friendships across houses and years. Well, not just friendships — she was pretty sure Harry had used it to get to know both Cho and Ginny. Or, maybe they had used it to get to know him? Ginny was certainly assertive; Tonks had never really met Cho.

One of the young students near the center of the crowd was Cedric Diggory, now a second-year. She had kept an eye on him all year. This timeline would be different. She would make sure everyone was prepared for the worst, but she would do her darndest to prevent it from happening in the first place. That was the real way to change the future, the only way to do so without risking the lives of everyone she cared about. She laughed to herself — done right, her biggest regret this time around might be having messed with Harry's love life. Should she contrive to have him introduced to Cho earlier, before Cedric asked her out? Give Ginny some competition? Maybe the timeline would work out better if she didn't simplify too many things . . . she could justify a little meddling as "reintroducing complexity for the sake of the timeline" — yeah, that sounded good. If Dumbledore ever found her out and she had to make excuses for acting ridiculous, she was prepared. Nobody other than Dumbledore would buy it, but that was okay. She laughed quietly to herself.

Tonks turned away from the crowd and looked back into the fire. She scooted over a few feet, then leaned back against the side of a chair. She could tell her house had the matter under control — they had moved to the lower-key conversation of drawing up plans. It sounded like they would just be using the dorms and common areas for practice for now (not that they had any other choices under the circumstances). That was good though, she thought — it was usually easier to avoid looking suspicious if you did things in plain sight.

She let her mind drift again, relaxing in the sound of friendly voices around her. The year would end and she'd need to move on; perhaps Voldemort would rise again; perhaps all her plans would fall apart. But for right now she was comfortable, and this was a good thing. She would need to learn to relax if she was to keep her cover and avoid interfering in any sort of Hufflepuff dueling practice. Dimly she was aware that she could probably never go on to the Auror Academy in this timeline, since there was no way she could hide her experience from them. Sirius might start bugging her about "finding a career" or something on the next Hogsmeade weekend, but she could avoid thinking about that for a little while longer.

* * *

Tonks woke up, still leaning against the chair. The fire was burning a little lower than before, adjusting automatically to the time of day. A quick _Tempus_ returned 2:04 AM. She yawned, got up, and found the room empty.

She was halfway to the door to the girls' dorms when she heard whimpering and gasping from a couch off in the shadows. She moved quietly, so she was pretty sure the couple hadn't heard her. Then again, maybe they didn't care. This was another difference between Hufflepuff House and the Auror Corps — the Auror office never had couples making out in the corner.

Listening to them, for Tonks, was like a whispered promise that even if she wasn't having fun of that sort herself, in _theory_ it was an option. Sure, she had kissed a boy or two under the mistletoe at Christmas, and maybe had a few intense conversations in the common room that led to something more, but it was always a one-time thing. She would feel awkward, completely change her appearance the next day and avoid the boy out of shyness, so nothing ever came to anything. She didn't know whether she regretted that or not. There were a lot of boys here, sure, but now that she had six years on the oldest of them in mental age, they were too boring or annoying to be attractive.

She told herself that of course she knew what to do with boys — she had a son, for Merlin's sake — or rather, had in the other timeline. She grimaced. The noises in the corner, now that she was paying attention to them, included wet, semi-rhythmical ones. She kind of wished that she found it arousing, and wondered what it would take for her to actually be turned on by it. Probably knowing who it was, for a start, would help — noises alone were too abstract for her. Noises plus gossip, though . . .

She walked quietly to a spot where she wouldn't cast a shadow in the firelight, and waited. Convinced that she was still being ignored, she inched around. She didn't pretend this was good practice for anything. And it's not like the couple would tell on her, right?

As it turned out, they were far too distracted to notice her. The boy had his hand up the girls robes, and she was kissing him, moaning into his mouth. Tonks vaguely recognized them, and placed them somewhere between third and fifth years, but didn't know their names. So, no gossip, then. She watched for a minute, maybe more, before deciding it was depressing after all.

She went to bed, then lay awake making a mental inventory of boys she knew and contemplating whether she would want to seduce any of them. There weren't any good candidates. She loved Remus, or at least the old Remus, but even the thought of meeting up with him didn't seem appealing. A lot of things no longer seemed appealing lately. Maybe she was too anxious about the future for that? It didn't really matter. Regardless of the source, the effects of stress were the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead. Neither is the story. I just had a section that I needed to work on all at once, and was very difficult to get through. Which is not to say the rest will be easy; I have no idea.
> 
> Looking forward, chapters 54-56 are basically continuations of this one. I will post them as I finish cleaning them up. After that the plot will actually move some, but I will probably be doing something like describing the same events over repeatedly from different perspectives. That might take a while before I'm comfortable posting anything.
> 
> After that I will take some unknown amount of time (probably way more than I anticipate, given how everything else has gone) to wrap up loose ends. Then I can send everyone off on the Hogwarts Express and call it "End of Year One" or something exciting like that.
> 
> Probably at that point I will go back through the whole thing fixing stupid editing errors. I try not to do that too much since, at least on Ficwad, it can wind up sending update alerts to people when all I did was fix a typo.
> 
> As to this chapter, I'm sorry it is depressing. Hopefully the following chapters will make up for it. I feel bad for Seventh-Year Hogwarts students — even non-time-traveling muggles often have trouble in their last years at a school.
> 
> Please assume that Tonks will behave responsibly if she thinks she's depressed and go see Madam Pomfrey. I have no idea how to get into the topic of mental health in a world with things like cheering charms, so I will probably not tackle it in any further depth than I have so far. I mention all this because I'm uncomfortable writing a character who acts depressed but doesn't seek help.


	54. A Visit To Malfoy Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to Malfoy Manor and a few consequences thereof.

Sunday, January 20, 1991. Mid-morning.

 

She had been hoping to see one of the Malfoy's famous white peacocks, but when the portkey deposited her on the grounds of Malfoy manor, there was only the silent, snow-covered landscape to greet her. The dirty white gravel of a carriage road crunched beneath her feet, kept, by unseen magic, mostly clear of snow, but not of the scruffy grass and weeds growing up through it, reassuring the observant visitor that the driveway was ancient and never actually used. Rita assumed somewhere on the estate was an old, disused out-building, filled with the accessories of an age when wizards had regularly hitched some hoofed animal to a carriage or sled, and the Malfoys had received visitors arriving by that means.

The portkey had brought her to a spot from which she could just make out the high, peaked roofs of the manor's towers, visible over the tops of the enormous yews and rhododendrons that had been allowed to encroach on the road here, creating the feel of a dark tunnel that she would emerge from once the lawns opened up in front of her. Behind her, the road wound through the woods, presumably leading off to some imposing wrought-iron gate, and, beyond that, an apparation point, then a wall of wards powerful enough to rival any in Britain. Most visitors would have begun at the apparation point; giving her the portkey had been a deliberate, if as-yet uninterpretable, gesture on Lucius' part.

She shivered and drew her cloak around herself. A gust of wind came through the bushes, blowing snow in her face and down the front of her robes. She tightened her scarf, but her neck was already cold and wet. She considered a drying charm, but thought better of it. She would be indoors shortly.

The road made one last turn around a stately cedar, and the house came into view. Malfoy Manor had gothic-style peaks and gables, with dark slate shingles and blue-green copper trim, all rising from a three-story, Rennaissance-style mansion of light stone that was noticeably more window than wall. The road continued on around the building, where she saw hints of dense hedges and formal gardens. Here, though, a stone walk took her the remaining hundred feet or so to the entrance. The front lawn was small, dotted with leafless shrubs that would no doubt be festooned with flowers come May. For now it looked quite bleak, waiting for spring (and, she thought to herself, her visit).

She stood under the little entrance portico and took a deep breath. The knocker on the door was a ring in the shape of a serpent, tail held in its mouth. She gave it a good solid two knocks, then waited. The only other sound was the wind in the trees — for the first time she noticed how striking it was to be free of the sounds of muggle machines. Even when she had been at Hogwarts, she had sometimes heard the sounds of aeroplanes flying in the distance. Rumor had it that Malfoy Manor was somewhere in the rural parts of Wiltshire, so it certainly might be isolated enough, but she suspected this kind of true peace and quiet was only achievable through magic. For all that she herself was a legendary source of noise, the silence was lovely. She wondered why more wizards didn't seek to create it. Yes, that would definitely go in her article.

* * *

Lucius — they had been on a first name basis for years now — had met her at the door himself, and greeted her warmly with a kiss on the cheek. She returned the gesture, lingering just slightly longer than necessary.

"Rita! You look lovely as always. Dobby! Take Miss Skeeter's cloak."

After letting the nervous, bowing elf take her cloak and scarf, Lucius led her upstairs to a brightly-lit tower room overlooking the south lawn. Breakfast had been laid out for them on a table by the window. The entryway had been dim, and her eyes took a moment to adjust.

The table, laden with eggs and sausage, fruit and pastries, had been set for two. She looked up at him as he gestured to one of the chairs.

"Will your wife and son be joining us?" she asked.

"No, no, it is just the two of us today," he replied. "Narcissa and Draco are out visiting and won't be back until evening."

That sounded promising! Lucius had always been frustratingly difficult to get ahold of for more than a few brief quotes. Every few years he had taken her out to dinner in London somewhere and given her a decent interview, but this was the first time he had invited her into his home. Best not to question her luck, she had decided.

As they settled into their chairs, Lucius continued. "I'm afraid it's not a fancy French restaurant, but I didn't want you to think I was always trying to impress you."

She grinned and gestured dismissively. "Because you're certain you already have that taken care of! Yes, I know."

Lucius put on a look of mock-offense. "Of course not! I merely thought you would appreciate a different perspective on me, since you are always so intent on finding the 'real person' behind your interviewees." He smiled.

"And I am of course _extremely_ grateful," she said, making eye contact and keeping it while she picked up a large strawberry and bit into it. "Mmmmm." Lucius kept her gaze for long enough to show he wasn't uncomfortable, then looked out the window, smiling. It had started to snow. He turned back to the table and served himself some eggs and sausage. He obviously wasn't going to initiate any insightful commentary on issues of the day. That was fine; she was used to taking the lead.

* * *

She had kept to personal questions during the meal, asking about his family, the manor house, his childhood, and all the other things she routinely went through while digging for promising leads. She took copious notes. Not that she really needed them, but Lucius of all men would appreciate her careful attention to style. Besides, the ritual of fiddling with her quill gave her confidence and something to do with her hands if she got nervous or fidgety.

The elves had cleared the table, and Lucius was sipping his tea, watching her expectantly.

"So, to the real business. Is there, or is there not, a basilisk roaming the halls of Hogwarts? And what _is_ the Board of Governors going to do about it?"

Lucius snickered. "Always direct. If only the members of the Wizengamot could be more like you." His smile looked quite genuine.

"Yes, yes, I will be sure to tell our readers how charming you are. The basilisk?"

"We have no proof it exists. There are eleven students and a staff member—"

"—also a cat?"

"I believe so. As I was saying, they are in the school's hospital wing suffering from an unusual paralysis. Visitors from St. Mungo's tell us they have never seen it before, but they all have insisted it must be due to a basilisk." He shrugged. "Under the circumstances, I think we cannot know for sure, and it seems unwise to leap to conclusions. Nevertheless, everyone knows the legend that Salazar Slytherin left a monster behind to defend the school in times of need, and it is only human to imagine oneself to be part of some epic story. So," he concluded, smiling, "there will always be believers."

"Come now Lucius, the legend isn't that simple! Everyone _also_ knows the version in which the basilisk was left to purge the school of muggleborns. Surely that possibility influences the Board of Governors one way or the other."

Lucius laughed. The question was more opportunity than bait, and Rita knew it. "It might, if we agreed on anything, or had any ideas as to how to proceed — I speak only for myself, of course."

"Of course."

"So, in practice, no, I would not say that the Board is influenced by the story. It is true that Salazar Slytherin distrusted muggles, and by extension muggleborn wizards, but that was an eminently sensibly attitude for a British wizard at the time! Hogwarts isn't built like a castle for aesthetic reasons. Concerns about . . . the proper integration of muggleborn wizards and witches into our society are not new. Slytherin was simply a realistic man who, I like to think, planned for all contingencies." Lucius paused, smiling, as she took that down. "So, yes, Rita, given the hazards that muggleborns might pose to us, I would like to believe there is truly a basilisk in Hogwarts."

Rita looked startled. "A basilisk? You seem sure it wouldn't be an indiscriminate killer, but surely a thousand years is a long time for any enchantment to last on it."

Lucius shrugged. "We cannot know. I would of course like to believe it is a benevolent creature, if it exists. What we do know is that no one has, in fact, been killed. If it were truly a basilisk, it would have to be a magnificently well-controlled one, and if it were some other form of magic, modern or ancient, it would no doubt be very powerful. As I have told the rest of the Board, I believe that if some conscious entity is behind the paralysis cases, it could easily have killed had it chosen to. Yet it did not. We should not lose perspective."

Lucius paused, watching the snow fall, perhaps for dramatic effect. "But that was a week ago," he continued, "and for all of the truly elaborate precautions that Headmaster Dumbledore has caused the school to undergo, I hear that nothing exciting has happened there since. As much as I have great respect for the Headmaster, I am yet more confident that the magic of the Founders lives on in the school, safeguarding the students."

"So you aren't worried about Draco attending next year, then?"

Lucius blinked. Just a tiny hint of a flinch before regaining composure. "As a father, of course I worry! Just not about any basilisk left behind by Salazar Slytherin. I simply do not believe any magic of Slytherin's would harm a member of his own house." He smiled.

"So, would you say you are confident that your son will be sorted into Slytherin House? And are you certain the basilisk will only attack students from the other three houses"

"I repeat that I am not convinced of the existence of a basilisk at Hogwarts. Nevertheless, as to Draco's sorting, of course! It is a foregone conclusion for a Malfoy. But that's a distraction. And I would appreciate you not discussing my son at length in your article." He paused to sip his tea. "Beyond, I suppose, portraying me as a loving father, if you wish."

"Of course."

"Hmm. Perhaps your readers could look at it this way: Consider, for a moment, the implications if a basilisk were specifically protecting _Slytherins_ from the hazards created by the current policy of admitting so many muggleborn students to Hogwarts."

Rita nodded; vats of ink had been expended on this issue. Between Grindelwald and Voldemort, the number of pureblood wizards in Britain had been reduced to a small fraction of its value fifty years ago. Most magical children in the country were now either halfbloods or muggleborn as a simple matter of proportion, since the general population of muggles kept producing magical children at the same rate. And Albus Dumbledore, with a zeal exceeding any Hogwarts headmaster before him, did his level best to ensure that any muggleborn with halfway-adequate academic preparation would, without fail, receive a Hogwarts letter.

"Now then," continued Lucius, "remember that all four founders had equal opportunities, so far as we know, to leave behind powerful magic to protect their own. We are not hearing about such things. Yet, according to my good friend, Professor Severus Snape, there remains an abundance of anti-Slytherin, anti-pureblood prejudice at Hogwarts."

"So . . ." Rita began, then paused, but Lucius wasn't going to finish her sentence for her. "Are you saying, then, that Salazar Slytherin's protective magic, if it exists, is especially . . . justified in manifesting now?"

"I couldn't say. I would not dream of second-guessing the Founders like that."

"Of course, of course. But surely any dangers facing the school are nothing compared to those of the Founder's era?" Lucius looked annoyed; that was good! "Don't you think a basilisk is overkill?" she asked, trying to draw him out.

"What?" he said, putting down his tea and turning fully towards her. "Do you think muggles are somehow friendlier to wizards today? _Rita_." He looked her in the eye. She was puzzled. "Miss Skeeter? Who was the last muggle you spoke to?"

She remained silent for a moment, admiring his set-up. She really hadn't spotted that one coming. Better play it up; he earned it. She looked down at the table, then quietly muttered the name:

"Vernon Dursley."

Lucius leaned across towards her, pointing. "My dear Rita, if you take one thing from this interview, let it be to remind your readers of this: Today, it is only the paper-thin wall of the Statute of Secrecy, nearly impossible to enforce as a law, but honored by the wizarding world out of solidarity and fear — it is this alone which separates us from fates we can barely imagine. Albus Dumbledore placed Harry Potter with a family that was more _embarrassed_ by magic than they were cunning or efficiently vengeful. What if it had been their own son who had gotten a Hogwarts letter, thanks to Headmaster Dumbledore's active solicitation of muggleborn and half-blood students for his own school? It would take only one dark-hearted individual to betray us all to the muggles, and we could only hope our obliviators were faster than muggle devices." Lucius stopped, as if he had gotten carried away. "Don't print all of that. Be sensible. Don't give any ideas."

He took a deep breath and continued on. "We are talking about _muggles_ , remember! Who fight wars with their soulless machines, their poisons, their weapons that destroy whole cities! We would be less fortunate than Harry Potter, I am sure. The muggles would do worse than give us a few bruises and starve us, if they could, and yet we allow their children directly into Hogwarts? It is insanity!" He slammed his fist down on the table. Rita was doubtful whether Lucius genuinely cared about the issue, but he was a spectacular actor and his quotes would sell papers.

"It is the responsibility," he said, appearing calmer now, "of old families like the Malfoys to be the voice of sense at times like these. We have grown complacent, and if the treatment of poor Harry Potter was not enough to make Wizarding Britain see reason, who knows? Maybe the discussion provoked by a possibly-mythical snake will be more compelling than the abuse of a very real magical child."

He sat back and once again let her finish taking notes. This was wonderful! She could fill whole pages by writing about his beautiful house, charming mannerisms, gorgeous hair, and graceful, aristocratic hands . . . sure, those all sold papers, and she'd throw them in. But it was all so much better with Lucius giving her exactly what she wanted! It was turning out to be a very good day.

When her quill stopped moving and she looked up at him, he smiled, almost apologetically, saying "I think that's enough for now, don't you? Let's go sit somewhere more comfortable."

* * *

"'Ohhh, Lucius,' I purred, as we sat together by the fire, safe in the knowledge that we had the rest of the afternoon to renew our friendship. 'Lucius,' I said again, taking his aristocratic hand in mine, 'I simply cannot thank you enough for giving . . . my readers this opportunity . . .' Reader, I tell you, I was at a loss for words as I looked into the gorgeous steel-grey eyes of this fascinating, misunderstood, and powerful man. It was all I could do to refrain from reaching over and tangling my fingers in those pale blond locks, pulling him to me at last—"

"Oh, cut it out you two. Now I know you're just making this stuff up!" Becky looked put out. Rissa and Sandra had snatched a copy of the Prophet from someone and were doing a dramatic reading of Rita's article.

"You know she was thinking it," countered Rissa, looking exasperated.

"Yeah!" said Sandra, "we were just saying it all out loud!"

There were quite a few students from up and down the table who had been listening in, hoping for a spectacle. From these came grumbling, and a sixth-year boy complained "what did you have to do that for? They were just getting to the good part, right, girls?"

"Yeah, Becky," said Sandra, "it was just a little further before she started unbuttoning his silk shirt—"

"—running her fingers down the pale, pale skin of his smooth chest," added Rissa.

"And," finished Sandra, pointing at Angie, "it wouldn't take much more before we had Angie on her back on the table, acting it out!"

Angie was sitting next to Sandra and had so far remained silent.

"See?" said Sandra, pointing at the spreading pinkness on Angie's face as attention was turned to her, "now she's blushing. You've ruined the mood."

"Right," said Becky, "because what I really want is to have someone writhing around naked in front of me during lunch."

This was followed by cries of "speak for yourself!" and "we can clear a spot down here!"

It was too much for Angie. She was out of her seat before anyone thought to stop her. The other Slytherins could only watch as a prefect stationed at the doors moved nervously to block her way; no one had so far had the nerve to simply run out of the Great Hall since the current safety regime had been instated.

Angie halted ten feet from him, a look of utter panic on her face as she realized she could get in serious trouble for leaving without an escort. "Hey, um," said the prefect, as Angie looked past him at the doors, barely acknowledging his existence as anything other than an obstacle.

Angie wasn't athletic, but she wasn't out of shape either, and she had the advantages of surprise, adrenaline, and motivation. She darted to the left. The prefect tried to intercept her. Directly in front of him, she attempted to change direction at full speed. She slipped, falling to one knee in front of him and catching her fall with her hands. The boy had a split second to stop himself from falling over her. In the short moment it took him to recover enough to grab for her robes, she sprung forward, launching herself under his arm and out of his reach.

She slammed shoulder-first into one of the heavy wooden doors, hitting it with just enough force to swing it open ten inches. It was enough for her to slip through, and she was gone before the prefect could catch her or any of the professors had thought to draw their wands.

* * *

Severus Snape had watched the whole thing, but had not seen fit to intervene. Let Albus take responsibility for pretending to be paranoid. He gave a questioning look to the Headmaster, who looked like he wasn't sure what to do. Severus had seen that look countless times before, always in situations where either nothing was wrong in the first place, or else there was an obvious choice that sane people would make, and which Albus would go to incredible lengths to avoid choosing.

"I could go after her, if you like," Severus offered. "She will probably run directly to her room. Shall I go with her so that we can both be eaten by the basilisk together, should it choose this moment to make an appearance? Of course, at her current speed I have no chance of catching her. But perhaps it would make you feel better? For the sake of appearances, then?"

The headmaster didn't so much as glance at Severus' finely-crafted smirk, but continued looking sincerely worried. After a moment he muttered "Yes, yes, I suppose you had better. Thank you Severus."

Damn him.

* * *

"Heh," said Bernard, watching Angie run by. "Looks like she got worked up and we were sitting too far away to watch." He nudged Oren, who had been listening closely to Sandra and Rissa's performance, at least as best as he had been able from twenty feet and five conversations away. It helped that the girls were being loud. Once he saw what happened with Angie, though, he tried to look very interested in his soup.

"Looks like Snape is going after her," observed Erwin.

Sometimes Oren had wondered why he had hung around with these two the first time around. He often wondered why he did it now. At the moment, Oren could come up with an endless stream of embarrassing things that Erwin or Bernard _could_ be saying, but weren't, because they weren't sophisticated enough to come up with them.

Right, that was one of the reasons. Oren told himself that this helped him keep out of trouble and preserved his cover, and it wasn't just the social path of least resistance.

 

Although he was relieved to drop the conversation for now, Oren had to admit that the idea of something happening between Lucius Malfoy and Rita Skeeter _was_ funny — at least in the way _he_ envisioned it. Oren was pretty sure a faithfully enacted roleplaying scenario involving Rita and Lucius would end with Narcissa catching them in the bedroom — listening through the door, as Lucius went through his wardrobe excitedly talking about wonderful little shops in Italy, how to pair velvet with fabric of other textures, how hard it was to find heavily-charmed robes that also draped properly, and the nuances of getting Slytherin greens to match precisely across different materials and light sources. For this last, Oren imagined Erwin and Bernard's look of horror as he tried to explain metamerism to them; they vaguely knew Oren wanted to be a furniture designer, but tried their best to escape from any conversations that went down that route. He kept having to remind himself that this wasn't a very good test for whether he was blowing his cover, since Erwin and Bernard had reacted in precisely the same ways the first time around, too.

Oren really did know more about Slytherin green than anybody. And Lucius Malfoy — probably unconsciously, Oren conceded — really did do a good job of putting together outfits that stayed coordinated under all the weird light sources wizards made use of. Oren noticed those things. If he ever got stuck roleplaying Lucius Malfoy and needed to gain control of the situation before it got out of hand, he was tempted to swiftly take off his trousers, point to his crotch, and exclaim "Look! Look! My green silk boxers match my merino wool calf socks, even under the light of Snape's ridiculous green desk lamp!" _That_ ought to stop them all cold, he imagined. Not that he had ever owned green silk boxers, or would be likely to wear them if he did.

* * *

"Miss Crane, are you in there?" Snape had exercised his right as Head of House to go into the girls' dorm without setting off alarms. He had seen no sign of Angie along the way, and had no plan ready if there were no response to his knocking.

"Uh, yes," came a nervous voice from within.

"I take it, then, that you have not been eaten by a basilisk during your recent unexpected trip from the Great Hall?"

Giggling. "No."

"And you are not petrified?"

"Er, no."

"I'm sure the headmaster will be . . . relieved. Would I be correct in surmising that we would both be embarrassed by discussing whatever . . . prompted . . . your rapid departure?"

"Uh . . ." Silence for a moment. He waited. "Maybe. I think so."

Snape was certain the girl had run from the hall in response to teasing, but since she had been blushing and was not in tears, experience had taught him it was better not to draw further attention to the situation by asking more questions.

"Very well. I trust you will let me know if my involvement is required."

"Thanks, professor." She sounded genuinely grateful.

He smiled, and was briefly glad she couldn't see it.

"You are very welcome, Miss Crane."

* * *

The evening after Rita Skeeter's article was published, Dumbledore summoned the four heads of house and the defense professor to his office. They were sitting there now, ostensibly planning, and in reality bickering. Everyone knew the meeting had been called in response to the article, although this had so far gone unmentioned.

"Perhaps we could trap it?" Professor Flitwick suggested. "It might be magic-resistant, but large enough iron bars ought to hold it."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "I assure you I would have set such a trap myself if I had been able to devise a magical means of detecting the basilisk. I am certainly open to suggestions."

"Ah, yes, you see," began Flitwick, gesturing excitedly, "given the castle's magic it may be impossible to detect _directly_ , but what if the trigger condition were something extremely general? How heavy did you estimate this thing would be, Erasmus? Several tons?"

Eeles nodded. " _Assuming_ ," he began, counting conditions on his fingers, "that it's an adult, that written records of basilisk biology are accurate, and that it's actually a basilisk in the first place and not something that simulates the effect of one, sure. In _that_ case I presume it would be two to five times the mass of a large python."

"Yes, yes," said Flitwick, waving his hands, "all your disclaimers apply, of course. We are nevertheless permitted to solve one problem at a time!" The rest of the staff nodded, and Eeles seemed content that he wouldn't be blamed for anything, so Flitwick continued. "What if our trigger was simply based on weight alone?"

"Wouldn't a large group of students set it off, then?" asked Sprout.

"No, no! Not necessarily," said Flitwick, "since we can have it check for humans, or the presence of non-humans! Although I imagine a full-grown basilisk would be quite heavy."

"Presumably," began Snape, pausing long enough for everyone to look expectantly at him, "you will warn your gamekeeper not to go . . . exploring." He ignored the exasperated looks of the others, and turned towards Eeles. "There is another problem, of course. Perhaps, Erasmus, in your previous . . . employment . . . you have had the experience of seeing a dragon in a trap?"

Eeles grinned. "Not directly, no, but I've heard it," he said, "from several miles away! Set the jungle on fire for acres around, too. And that was just when they had to catch a sick one! A basilisk would probably be the same size as the little dragons we had back in the Congo reservation — can't have a huge mountain of a dragon crawling around in the canopy. Jungle dragons are all the smaller, more agile type. Feisty buggers. Glad I just had to deal with poachers."

"It's a good point, though," Eeles continued, looking serious. "You realize _trapping_ the basilisk will be the easy part, right? I'm sure you've got ideas for what to do with it when you've got it, of course, but whatever that is, I suggest you do it as quickly as possible, before word gets out that, you know, you have a real live basilisk here."

Most of the others seemed puzzled. "Thank you for the cautionary tale, Erasmus," said McGonagall, delicately, "but I assure you we have no idea what to do with it once, as you say, we have got it."

Eeles shook his head. "Eh, you'll figure it out. Sure, it'll take thirty of you to get it out of here, but animals are nice and predictable." He looked around the room, his gaze finally resting hopefully on Snape, who sighed.

"If I am not mistaken," offered Snape, looking at Eeles, "your point is that . . . disposing of a basilisk is a trivial problem, as it merely requires a small army of wizards?"

"Precisely!" said Eeles, happily, and missing any irony. "But you have no idea what a horde of lunatics — crazed would-be heroes — you will find on your doorstep if you aren't careful! Honestly, I have no idea why you don't have one now. Hm. You don't right?"

Dumbledore laughed and shook his head. "Not yet, unless you count the Ministry man with the dog."

Eeles nodded. "Good, good. That means British wizards are a skeptical lot, right? Won't go rushing in without proof?" For this comment he received a lot of uncomfortable looks. "Maybe they're just lazy?" he offered, netting a slightly different set of uncomfortable looks. He sighed and shrugged. "Well, in most of the rest of the world, people seem to have a pathological attraction to big dangerous animals. In any event, I think you ought to be prepared to have adventurers coming out of the woodwork if the basilisk ever does turn up."

"How fortunate," drawled Snape, a hint of a smile on his lips, "that we have you with us, then."

"Oh no, Merlin, no!" said Eeles, shaking his head and laughing. "Not my job this time! No, no, no! You hired me for a teaching position," he said, shaking his finger at Dumbledore, "not crowd control. Get your auror corps for that — they're the ones who're all trained to follow rules and exercise _restraint_ and arrest people and so on."

Snape snorted; the others looked mildly horrified. Eeles threw up his hands. "I'm just saying," he explained, "all I really know about dealing with problem people is how to curse the shit out of 'em. Just warn your aurors and get a team from dragon restraint out here in time. That's all assuming the damn thing doesn't sleep for another century, of course. Personally, I'm hoping it's at least until the end of the semester, once I'm gone."

* * *

The conversation went on in that vein for a while, allowing Severus to re-emphasize, in several different ways, that the idiocy of man was without bound, and most especially the idiocy of Hogwarts students. Eeles seemed to think this was for his benefit (as if the permanent staff had not heard it all before), and was gratified that at least someone had listened to him. Beyond that, though, Severus sat back, biding his time, and allowed Flitwick and Dumbledore to do most of the hashing out of details for the proposed enchantments.

Dumbledore had made a show of taking notes. Severus was never sure who the Headmaster thought he was fooling by that — it wasn't like the old man didn't already have some byzantine plan all set to go. Probably. But Dumbledore had to _look_ like he was building consensus, didn't he, so the next bit came as expected: the final flurry of scribbling, the grave look, hands resting on the desk. "Now that's settled—" the Headmaster began, leaving just enough dramatic pause for Severus to interrupt and finish the sentence.

"—we will stop pretending the basilisk entered the halls under its own volition?" Severus waited, prepared to say something sarcastic about how obviously it was silly for him to suggest that, since it was too politically inconvenient around here to deal with reality for the foreseeable future, or, apparently _ever_ — but, to his surprise, Dumbledore simply nodded.

"Surely you don't have a suspect, do you?" asked Pomona.

"Unfortunately, no," replied the Headmaster, in a tone Severus found unconvincing. That was worrisome. Apparently Minerva thought so too.

"Albus," she said, "if you know something that could help us preserve the safety of the students, you had better have a very good reason for keeping it to yourself." The others made noises of agreement. Dumbledore was notoriously difficult to influence this way; Snape was continually amazed how the Headmaster's friends were nevertheless willing to keep trying.

"I have only the usual overheard gossip and groundless aspersions cast willy-nilly upon students and staff alike in a time of great tension," said Dumbledore, sighing and looking around the room as if to indicate this was the final word. "As to a plan, it is my hope that we might appear to let down our guard, while relying upon a combination of continued vigilance on our part and whatever traps we might devise."

Snape had lost interest in the discussion at this point, and the other heads of house seemed relieved to have a definite plan. Eeles just shrugged, as if to say 'I'll go along with it, but I think you're all crazy.' It was a gesture he had used a lot lately, often accompanied by the gestures for 'what can you expect from a school founded by somebody who kept a basilisk for a pet' and 'sweet Merlin, why did I ever decide working with humans was a good idea?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know which bits of the conversation between Rita and Lucius were real.
> 
> The description of Malfoy Manor, though, is directly based on the movie version, which involves CGI additions to the actual building where the Malfoy Manor scenes were filmed. I can only assume the additions were intended to give it a darker, more sinister appearance. Since I regard this as an unfortunate choice on the part of the producers, I don't think it's fully true to canon, so I decided not to play it up in the story. Nevertheless, it's way too good to waste completely, since when I saw it, I knew _exactly_ what Oren would think of the movie version of it.
> 
> If you were to get Oren drunk enough — this would be very unlikely, as he would never drink — but if you did, and if the Malfoys weren't around (as he would genuinely not want to hurt their feelings), he would tell you that Malfoy Manor was an architectural monstrosity, born of class anxiety and slavish imitation of muggle culture, and designed by a misguided, aesthetically-challenged architect for a client who _should have known better_.
> 
> Pairing a gothic roof with a renaissance base would look unnatural to a muggle; on a wizarding building — unfettered by the limitations of muggle fashions and construction methods — it was an abomination. And, for the residence of a great family, it _ought_ to be scandalous, yet the Malfoys continued to receive visitors, none of whom saw anything out of the ordinary about Malfoy Manor.
> 
> Oren would then point to buildings like the Hogs Head or even the Burrow, had he ever seen it, as examples of an authentic wizarding architecture — true expressions of the spirit of wizarding Britain in all its native genius and creativity — which there was no good reason at all not to emulate in buildings of less humble purpose.
> 
> He would probably then go on to quote John Ruskin until your ears bled.
> 
>  
> 
> This seems like a good place for a reminder that the opinions of characters are not necessarily those of the author. :P


	55. A Dispreferred Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another class with Eeles.

Chapter 55: A Dispreferred Weapon

 

Thursday, January 24, 1991

 

"Alright then, let's get started. As you know, I don't have a very definite syllabus—"

Laughter. Professor Eeles was outdoors, lecturing to his seventh-year class. He had them meet outside fairly often, even when he didn't have any articulable reason. A popular theory was that he was scared of breaking things indoors.

Now that it was the middle of winter, students were expected to dress appropriately or use warming charms, and whiners were generally mocked.

"Thank you. So, there's been a lot of talk about dealing with this basilisk lately . . . it makes a nice excuse to get into a topic I meant to return to by now."

Eeles waved his wand, held it vertically, and conjured a small ball which he kept hovering above the wand-tip. He dropped it into his other hand, on which he was wearing a dragon-hide glove.

"I'll pass this around — scourgify your hands or gloves after handling it, though, since it's a little toxic."

The ball, heavy and metallic, was passed from hand to hand, with most students nodding in recognition and others looking puzzled.

"Obviously, this is lead. Since it's such a heavy element, the conjuration won't stick around for all that long, but it will last through the class period just fine. Miss Tonks, can you conjure one of these?"

"Uh, I think so. Let's see — okay, there."

"Excellent! Don't worry, I'm sure before the year is out I'll find something you can't do on the first try."

She rolled her eyes. Eeles seemed to enjoy calling on her.

"Now," he said, pointing to one of his targets standing a hundred feet away, "using whatever spell you like, I want you to fling it at that target as hard as you can . . . very good!"

The ball had hit the target with a satisfying 'thunk!', then fell to the ground, where it presumably vanished a few minutes later. Eeles reached into his pocket and brought forth a small rectangular wooden box, which he unshrunk until it was around four feet long. Opening it, he withdrew a long muggle hunting rifle.

"This is a modern hunting rifle. I took it off of a, let's say, 'adversary', at my last job. Don't worry, it's unloaded. But it will fire just fine at Hogwarts — can anyone tell me why? Yes?" he said, pointing.

"It's not electronic?"

"Precisely. Three points to Gryffindor. You know, if you weren't wearing that red and gold scarf I would have had to ask, so thanks for making it easy for me! Anyway, I dug this out of my trunk because everyone keeps talking about how the basilisk is magic resistant, and asking me whether we could just, you know, use muggle weapons on it. There are two answers to that, sort of, and I thought it would be instructive to discuss them."

He put the gun back into the box while talking, leaving his hands free to gesture.

"The short answer is 'yes, probably', at least with a powerful enough weapon to pierce the basilisk's hide. This gun here probably wouldn't do it. It wouldn't work on a dragon either, although it sure looked like that wasn't going to stop its former owner from trying!" He shook his head. "To pierce the hide of a dragon-like animal, you would probably not be able to use a handheld firearm. Dragon hide is insanely tough. You would need something with a serious tripod or the like, to absorb the recoil . . . I see some of you have no idea what I'm talking about. That's okay — don't worry about it for now. Suffice it to say that I have actually encountered bigger guns than this one in the camps of poachers, so at least some muggles know what they are doing."

Eeles rarely just said 'don't worry about it'; students were never sure if 'for now' meant something would be on an exam, or not.

"So," he continued, getting his wand out again, "the first problem with that is that you can't look at the basilisk to aim, and the second is that you would not be likely to get a shot in before it struck at you. So you would need something remotely triggered and non-directional, which would probably also kill any bystanders. So that leads us to our second answer."

Eeles surveyed the class.

"And that second answer is 'Merlin, that's stupid!'"

Laughter.

"So, the bullets I'm about to load this with aren't anywhere _near_ the most powerful it can take, and they would still go through a whole line of those flimsy targets I have set up for spell practice. Let's see . . ."

Eeles conjured a log of wood, maybe a foot wide and several long, set it down and cast a few more charms on it, then slowly hovered it a hundred yards away to rest on a boulder. "Shields up, please. Physical projectiles. Just in case there are any shards of wood flying around." He watched, making sure this was done to his satisfaction. "Miss Tonks, would you come up here please? I'm going to stand behind yours and fire through it. Thank you."

Eeles removed the rifle from its case again, and stood inside Tonks' shield, the long barrel of the gun poking through it.

"You should normally never agree to that, by the way — I've made some, uh, modifications to this this thing to make it safer and quieter. It's not very representative."

He checked over Tonks' shield a second time.

"Okay, that should work. Now to load this thing." Eeles fiddled with the rifle for about two minutes while the class watched nervously, then spent another minute simply aiming at the log, making sure his hands were steady. There was a loud 'BANG!' as he pulled the trigger. The log wobbled. Eeles hovered it back again, showing that the bullet had gone straight through — the long way.

"Okay, one more demonstration. Instead of taking more risks with your historic landscape here, I'm going to try to conjure a block of stone like what the castle is built with. Hmmm. Okay, that's close enough. Put your shields back up — this is going to be messy."

Eeles hovered the resulting foot-wide block of stone to a spot on the lawn that was far away from anything else, took aim, and fired. The block shattered, and pieces of stone flew in all directions.

"Just a moment."

He cast a spell on the gun to clean it, then put it away.

"Not much left to hover back. Let's go over there and take a look . . . This is what would happen if a stray bullet hit the wall of the castle. It could be repaired, probably even if we couldn't find all the fragments, but those ejected fragments would fly fast enough to cause damage elsewhere, and the bullet could either ricochet or pass through walls, bodies, or other solid objects. Some of the castle might be reinforced against muggle weapons — I don't know. I wouldn't count on it, though. So, at the end of the day, even with my modified gun here, shooting the basilisk ought to be a strongly dispreferred method." Students were nodding.

"Of course, as I said, you probably wouldn't be able to hit the basilisk with a gun, even if you had one powerful enough to hurt it. So you would need something that sprayed multiple projectiles in several directions at once. Now, if the presence of such a contraption didn't tip off either the basilisk or its handler, the measures you would need to take to contain collateral damage might. I'm not saying it's impossible, of course. You have some very clever folks here who could conceivably rig something up, but I believe there's _got_ to be a better way. Let's go for a walk."

Eeles was obviously happier this way, tromping through the snow while lecturing conversationally. A minor amplifying charm made up for the size of the group, the direction he was facing, and the muffling effects of the snow. 'Whiners', the class had learned, could count on being mocked.

They were slowly making their way down the slope towards the Black Lake, past Hagrid's hut, into patchy, currently-leafless, and non-forbidden forest. On the southeast corner of the castle, now behind them, a high bridge spanned the northeast end of the valley between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. The bridge connected the entrance courtyard of the castle to the carriage road to Hogsmeade.

Beneath the bridge was a deep chasm, where the lake fed into a rocky stream which, when not frozen over, meandered more or less northwest, down glacier-carved valleys, widening here and there to form small lochs, and emptying out ten miles later somewhere in the northern Minch.

The Black Lake itself — which had a more official but utterly unpronounceable name in Scottish Gaelic — was half a mile wide by several long, and stretched away from the castle to the southeast. Circumnavigating it was a nice morning walk for Eeles and pretty much no one else. He would not attempt that today with the class.

Around the lawn of the castle to their west were the whomping willow, the greenhouses, and in the distance the quidditch pitch. Down the hill, by the lake, the Forbidden Forest was a dark, looming presence several hundred feet to their west.

"It's so beautiful here!" Eeles exclaimed. "I missed snow at my last job. Anyway. I had more I wanted to say . . . right! The difference in velocity between Miss Tonks' attempt and my own with an actual bullet was due to the bullet using stored energy. Wizards generally do not make use of stored energy, mostly because we are not trying to do things that would require it. Muggles are not trying to do the same things as wizards, and you can see this in the fact that their weapons are far, far more deadly. Watch your step here, the rocks are loose." Eeles paused in his lecture to let the students navigate the steep section of the path below Hagrid's hut.

A few minutes later, he resumed. "Everyone okay? Good. So, the point, or _a_ point, of bringing all that up is to note that much of the world has never heard of the statute of secrecy. You stick a dragon reserve in the middle of a country where every village has its wizards, untrained as they may be by Hogwarts standards, and you are never going to be able to hide that reserve. Not that dragons are easy to hide! Hah. So my point is that I have faced down an awful lot of muggle firearms — far more than I've seen of wands, actually — but I've been hired here to teach a class called 'Defense Against the Dark Arts' . . ."

He fell silent for nearly thirty seconds, letting the students hear the sound of their own footsteps, birds calling in the distance, and clumps of snow falling from trees.

"I've been doing some reading about European history, so I think I will get this next part straight. Let me know if you are sure I am wrong!"

This line was classic Eeles; no one knew what to make of it. Eeles walked backwards for a moment.

"Who can tell me the main differences in strategy between Voldemort and Grindelwald? There are lots of right answers here, go ahead! Just speak up — fine, raise your hand, make me keep walking backwards — you."

"Er, You-know-who used more of the Dark Arts?"

"And what the _bloody hell_ is that supposed to mean? Oh, don't bother explaining, but a point from Ravenclaw for willful vagueness. I don't think I want to hear your answers, after all. So. The big difference, at least as _I_ see it, was that Grindelwald had an _army_ of muggles, while Voldemort had a few dozen like-minded psychopaths, and wouldn't have anything to _do_ with muggles. There's an icy patch on this rock — watch out. Grindelwald was fighting to control territory — land — and although he said he was opposed to the Statute of Secrecy, he was too reasonable to break it outside of his inner circle. Historians say he was waiting to finish conquering the world. Fine, I'll buy that. In any case Grindelwald was very easy to clean up after in terms of obliviating muggles — so now every muggle knows the Nazis were, I think they'd say, 'into occultism'." The class laughed.

"Anyway, Grindelwald mostly sent wizards and magical beings to fight each other, and muggles to fight muggles, and it was a very traditional war all around. Voldemort attacked plenty of muggles, but only defenseless civilians, which as best as I can tell was meant to force your Ministry to spend resources handling that cleanly and discreetly. In Grindelwald's war, mostly muggles died. Under Voldemort, it was mostly wizards."

There was some muttering and grumbling now, which Eeles ignored.

"So my point — oh, look at those icicles! — my point is that Voldemort never seriously learned how to fight against muggles who were militarily significant. Never apparated in front of someone who was armed. And, from everything I've read, I don't think it was that he was being cautious or anything, or that he knew better — I think he just didn't give a _shit_ about actually taking over the country in any meaningful way, didn't give a _shit_ about the muggle government or military or what they would do the moment wizards broke the Statute the way he said he wanted. And he would have been in for a nasty surprise if he had tried, because he completely underestimated them!"

Eeles had raised his voice now, and with the mild amplifying spell it was echoing across the lake, profanity and all.

"If you take one thing away from today's class, I want it to be this — _do not mess around with muggle weapons_! For the umpteenth time I am going to urge you to learn one or more bullet-deflecting spells if you have _any_ reason to think you might have a job like I did."

In the auror academy they had spent several weeks on this topic, so aside from issues of usefulness, Tonks thought Eeles was completely justified in leaving it out of the curriculum in a class that only met a few times a week. She had only had one or two occasions to cast spells to deal with muggle weapons, and most British wizards never had any reasons at all for it. They were tricky spells, too, which didn't so much repel bullets as bend their trajectories around you — imperiling bystanders.

Eeles continued. "Wizards wave their wands around and at most kill a few people at a time! Our fights are neat and tidy compared to what muggles do. Muggles have weapons that destroy large cities in one go, and they use those without any regard for civilians! Sufficiently powerful muggle weapons will not just pierce dragon hide, but will go straight through ordinary shields! Do not underestimate them! European wizards, after Grindelwald's war and the one before it, seem to have developed an intense aversion to muggle weapons. If you travel to Africa or South America or parts of Asia, you will find this is not universal."

Eeles cast a _Tempus_. "Damn. I suppose I should start getting you back to the castle — don't worry, I'll give you a note if you need one."

* * *

As everyone was chatting informally on the way back, Tonks tried to stay near Eeles, hoping to get a word in and ask him a question. Currently he was regaling students with the story of how he got the hunting rifle he had used earlier. _All_ Hogwarts Defense professors Tonks had ever known loved telling stories, and most were quite biased by their own experiences. In this respect Eeles was no different from what Harry had reported about Gilderoy Lockhart, aside from the minor detail of Lockhart being a total fraud.

 

The trail up past Hagrid's hut left most of the students out of breath, and even Eeles took breaks from talking in order to navigate some tricky bits. It was after one of these that Tonks made her move.

"Professor Eeles? Did you coordinate that lecture with the interview with Lucius Malfoy in the Prophet yesterday?"

Eeles laughed. "No, actually! Although I can see how you'd wonder. Lucius and I had lunch a week ago, so I think the business about muggles was on his mind when he talked to the reporter. Sounds like she's a real character — Skeeter, right? Anyway he said it all more dramatically than I would, but sure, I suppose it's my doing that a lot of that got in the article."

"Huh."

That wasn't exactly the answer she was expecting; she had naively imagined Malfoy pressuring Eeles somehow. In retrospect that seemed silly.

It all made sense, though. Eeles clearly saw himself as an apolitical pragmatist, and probably didn't care how his ideas got used in British politics. He had some very convenient anecdotes to tell, and Malfoy — who probably lay awake at night writing speeches in his head — was nothing if not opportunistic. The difference between the two was that Eeles never demonized muggles in the way British pureblood supremecists did — Eeles just thought everyone other than himself was nuts, wizard and muggle alike.

"So," she said, tentatively seeing if she could get more information out of him, "do you agree with everything Mr. Malfoy said?"

Eeles laughed. "Merlin, no! He's a great guy, but he lets his . . . I'd say 'personal interests' . . . he lets them get in the way of advocating policies that make sense."

Tonks grinned and suppressed laughter.

"Eh, it's okay," said Eeles, "go ahead and laugh at him. Everyone else does, I think, and he can take it."

"So what do you disagree about, then?"

"Oh, well, Lucius can't bear the thought of Hogwarts being anything other than the center of the universe. You go to a prestigious boarding school, and even long after you graduate, you try to preserve its reputation out of self-interest." Eeles shrugged.

"The problem with that," he explained, "is that he also wants to get the muggleborns out of Hogwarts. But Dumbledore won't have any of it, since he thinks it's the best way to integrate them into society to have them come here. Lucius seems to think Dumbledore wants a chance to influence them before anyone else can, too."

"So what's the conflict, exactly?"

"You mean, in Lucius' views? It's that he basically agrees with Dumbledore on most points. They're both completely set on the idea that Hogwarts is the only pathway muggleborns could possibly have to wizarding society and good jobs."

"To be fair, it mostly is."

"Bullshit. The vast majority of wizards in the world have never even heard of Hogwarts, and they turn out alright. You're just so intent on preserving an old-boys network here that you don't care about anything else."

"I'm sorry professor, but you're not from around here. The few muggleborns who don't go to Hogwarts have very bad outcomes."

"Do you even know why they didn't go here?"

"I guess they rejected it and asked about other schools?"

"I am assured from all sides that no one _ever_ turns down Hogwarts." He rolled his eyes. "But Hogwarts turns down a number of muggleborns every year. Specifically, it turns down anyone Dumbledore thinks would fail out. And trust me, those students wouldn't have had a very good _outcome_ at most other schools, either, wizard _or_ muggle."

"I still don't see the problem."

"Well, there isn't one, from Dumbledore's perspective. The problem is everyone who doesn't want muggleborns at Hogwarts." He shrugged.

"I'm still not following. So you're just saying muggleborns should be allowed to attend Hogwarts, right?"

"Don't lay this on me! Not my school, not my politics, not my country. I meant what I said about Lucius and Dumbledore agreeing on everything else, though." He counted on his fingers. "They both agree Hogwarts is the center of the universe. They both agree no sane person would turn up a chance to attend here. They both agree muggleborns can't possibly make an informed choice for themselves about what school to attend. They agree that the choice should be made for them, and they agree that, because Hogwarts is the center of the universe, if muggleborns _must_ attend Hogwarts, the Hogwarts headmaster should get first pick of them."

"Huh. Still, those are pretty basic things to agree on."

"Mayyybe. But they mean Lucius can't advocate for any sort of school choice bill that would let muggleborns voluntarily choose to go elsewhere, since that would mean backtracking on dozens of other positions he's taken. And he can't get the votes to get muggleborns out of Hogwarts any other way, or to get rid of Dumbledore. So everybody stays mad at everybody else, and they fight."

"So your disagreement with Mr. Malfoy . . ."

"Basically comes down to whether the sky would fall if Hogwarts weren't treated like the center of the bloody universe."

"It's true, though," said Tonks, keeping a straight face. "Civilization would collapse, and the seas would boil."

Eeles just snorted.

* * *

"Shooting things again, Erasmus?"

"Mmmph, mm, yes." It was dinner, and Madam Pomfrey was skilled at saying things to people when their mouths were full.

"You know," said Dumbledore, "whenever I hear loud noises outside, I have learned to look for that hat of yours. I know when I see it that I shall have significant paperwork to look forward to."

Dumbledore smiled genially; he didn't really mind. Eeles' stunts were nothing compared to the problems previous defense professors had caused, and those in turn rarely rose to the level of an average day for Kettleburn.

"So what was it today?" Dumbledore asked.

"Elephant gun. Or the modern equivalent, really. I _did_ make it quieter than usual." Eeles bit into the drumstick of a roast chicken.

"I was not aware," said Madam Pomfrey, "that the defense curriculum now covered elephants. Their neglect by past professors was shameful really, given all the elephant related-injuries I see each year."

"Huh? Oh." Eeles took a moment to process that. "It's amazing what you can say with a straight face, Poppy. No, it's just a hunting rifle that can take large bullets for big game. Like elephants. Guy I took it from thought he would try it on dragons."

"Would it have worked?" Dumbledore looked genuinely concerned.

"Nah. Dragons are tough little buggers."

"Probably make 'em right mad, though!" said Hagrid, who had been listening in from the far end of the table.

"Absolutely," said Eeles. "It could be a real problem. Even if the poachers weren't well armed enough to hurt the dragon, if I didn't get to them first, the first dragon they'd find would burn down an awful lot of jungle in the fight. And there just isn't enough of the right kind of jungle anymore, so all the conservation people would be yelling at my boss. Bad scene."

"I'm sure it was," said Sprout. "We're very lucky to have the Forbidden Forest. If the founders hadn't planted it, you know, there would be sheep grazing here now. The Ministry couldn't care less."

It was a sore spot with Sprout that no one at the Ministry had anything to do with magical plants outside of regulating some of them as contraband.

After a few minutes of explaining exactly _why_ he felt the need to fire off a high-powered hunting rifle in class, Eeles turned around in his seat, looking for a way to change the topic.

"Why am I the only one who ever talks about their classes here? Hey, Quirinus — what did _you_ teach today?"

"M-me? Oh. I had the th-third years giving pre . . . presentations on muggle transportation . . . Trains. The sixth-years were d-discussing muggle religions. I spend a m-month on it . . . m-make sure they read what religious b-books say about m-magic. Some . . . some years we go into more depth than others, of course, d-depending on student interest."

That seemed to have taken Quirrel a lot of effort to get through. He looked up, evidently hopeful that everyone would be satisfied with his answer.

"What good does that do?" asked Eeles. "It's not like the muggles you have here have actual gods or anything to worry about, right?"

"Wh-what do you mean?" Quirrel looked lost. So did everyone else.

"Up here in Europe, you managed to kill off all your gods, or drive 'em away somehow. But you go way out in the middle of nowhere in Africa or somewhere, and there are all these tribal godlings and so on. Nasty pieces of work, those. Closest I've seen around here is Peeves. Bad comparison, really. Peeves is pretty harmless."

"S-so these are j-just p-powerful spirits, right?"

Eeles considered this. "You could call them that, I suppose, if you didn't say it or think it around them. It's not a big deal, really, since Hogwarts students are so unlikely to ever meet one."

"Actually," said Dumbledore, gesturing with his fork, "quite a few of our graduates find jobs that take them abroad. But, perhaps not everywhere."

"So," said Madam Pomfrey, glancing sideways at McGonagall, "do you suppose there was a real Minerva at some point?"

Eeles shrugged. "I don't see why not. What, the one you've got isn't real enough for you?" He grinned, pointing at McGonagall, who was smiling but trying not to get involved.

"Oh, this one's real _enough_ , I suppose," said Madam Pomfrey, affectionately poking her on the shoulder. "And I have to admit it's a _miracle_ that I don't see injuries from _her_ classes all that often."

"Her record is indeed better than mine was, I believe," said Dumbledore. "I'm afraid I didn't instill the same sort of fear in my pupils as she has been able to." He laughed, then quickly added "I mean fear of botched transfigurations, of course!"

"Of course," said Madam Pomfrey, smirking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a few paragraphs on geography in this chapter so I don't have to do it later. It will, hopefully, make things more comprehensible two chapters from now. I do that kind of thing constantly; I have to assume all authors do.
> 
> My layout of Hogwarts is idiosyncratic to this story, and while it's based on what was in my head when I read the books, it's not intended to mimic canon.
> 
> As to the location, Rowling's Hogwarts is more on the eastern side of Scotland, which is flatter, drier, and much more densely-populated. I didn't know she had specified anything when I first started writing this story, so it was yet another thing that went into my notes. Hogwarts in this story is closer to the west coast of Scotland, because that seems to match the rest of canon better in my mind (not that I care about canon all that much, disclaimer, disclaimer).
> 
> The highlands of Scotland are stunningly empty -- you could fit lots of Hogwartses in them. Once I had picked a location I liked (meaning, somewhere withing a 15 mile radius or so), I went hunting around for the nearest roads and cities on Google maps, but mostly there weren't any. I'm not sure how I feel about that.
> 
> The Minch is the body of water between northern Scotland to the east and the Outer Hebrides to the west.


	56. Two Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybill meets with Pomona, Tonks with Sirius.

Chapter 55: Two Conversations

 

Friday, January 25, 1991. 4:30 PM.

 

A major advantage of being considered a little "off", if not outright useless or fraudulent, was that no one ever asked Sybill to do anything. So while the other professors, during their free time, were expected to escort students around by day and patrol the halls by night, she was free to run off to London with Aurora, who was similarly off the hook, either for being new, or simply overlooked, or both. This was a Hogsmeade weekend, so their absence was especially likely to go unnoticed, and Sybill planned to take advantage of that to the fullest, even if it meant stumbling home in the wee hours of Monday morning and looking distinctly hung-over during her first few classes.

They were supposed to meet in the entrance hall at 5:15, which meant she had 45 minutes to find Professor Sprout somewhere in the greenhouses, talk to her about whether more mandrakes could be started, find her way out again, and then get back to the castle.

She had been wondering about the mandrakes ever since the petrifications had happened, but had been too nervous to ask. It was only this past Monday that Dumbledore had gotten around to talking to her about it, and she had been so terrified of getting in trouble over Mr. Malfoy that she had never spoken up on behalf of herself. Well, Pomona was much less intimidating than Dumbledore anyway.

Sprout was almost certainly still here — dinner wasn't for a while, her classes were over, and the students were allowed to walk back to the castle on their own (the basilisk was presumed to be an indoor-only monster). After passing through three empty greenhouse buildings (well, empty of humans, at any rate), seeing no movement, and hearing no humming, it was apparent that the herbology professor was nowhere to be found. Yelling achieved nothing besides embarrassment.

"Damn it," she muttered to herself. "Pointing spells don't work where space is folded, the weaver and the Parisian can't find living targets . . . neither can Ariadne's wire, and it's only for finding entrances anyway . . . fuck, there are doors in the way too, so I can't use dandelion seeds or an ibis or any of the strings . . ." She tapped her fingers, ticking off alternatives that would still let her get to London in a reasonable amount of time and still be in shape to enjoy it once she got there.

"Well, one out of two, at least."

Her grandmother had taught her to begin the Maze-Walker of Ur with an imprecation against the Sumerians and their gods. It had no magical effect, but it made you feel a little better about what followed. Or at least, Sybill enjoyed reciting it, even if the effect on her mood didn't last.

After about a minute of getting her fingers in the starting position, going over the next few motions, and then returning to the beginning again, she started the first three lines of the incantation. This produced a glowing, blue-violet ball in the center of the cage formed by her interlocked fingers, and a corresponding stabbing pain between her eyes. The light effects were invisible to all but the caster; they were just there to let you know the spell was working. The stabbing pain was also there to let you know the spell was working. Fuck the Sumerians.

Two more lines, and she released the ball, which shot away from her while splitting into three — one for each entrance to the building she stood in. The stabbing pain between her eyes likewise spread out across her forehead, resolving into three distinct stabbing pains. This happened several more times in quick succession as she repeated the seeking verses, leaving her at one point with sixteen distinct locations around her head where she could tell the spell was working. The greenhouses were extremely big, especially when measured in miles of corridors. As the fingers of the spell met themselves they would merge, and their representative locations would move together to merge into one, which usually remained twice as painful as its components.

This part of the spell was fortunately reasonably fast, as these spells went, and she had a fix on Professor Sprout in a little over a minute. By the time the fingers had retraced their steps, Sybill was experiencing serious vertigo, tunnel vision, and mild nausea. Once the ball had returned to her hands, several times larger than when it had left, she had to push it into her forehead, where supposedly it was using her own brain to find the shortest route. She had to lean against a table to avoid collapsing.

In another twenty seconds, when the agony inside her head had stopped, well, 'rotating' was the word her grandmother used, she pulled the ball back out of her forehead. It moved to hover a foot from her nose. She would need to keep it there with her gaze fixed on it for the entire trip, which effectively required moving at a near-constant pace even while opening doors. At least keeping her eyes on it neutralized some of the vertigo.

About six minutes later she rounded a corner and saw Pomona in the next building. Sybill cancelled the spell, then repeated the imprecation against Sumerians while catching her breath and trying not to throw up.

"Oh, hello, Sybill! Do close the door behind you, there's pollen in the air that I'm trying to keep in the room. Thanks. It doesn't have to be perfect, you know, but we should have more seeds if we're careful . . . Now, just a minute and I'll be with you. I just need to do this . . . and this . . . and move this one over here . . . there, that should do it!" She looked up, taking off her gloves and shaking dirt off of them.

"Alright then," said Sprout, "I suppose you came to see me about the mandrakes?" Sybill nodded. "I am so sorry about that. We're all very grateful to have started them when we did, of course. How long did it take Albus to tell you? Oh, don't tell me, I imagine you worked it out on your own by then anyway." Sybill nodded again, not having gotten a word in edgewise.

Pomona finally realized that Sybill seemed to be in pain. "Oh dear — are you alright?"

Sybill smiled weakly. "More or less. The spell I used to find you always gives me a headache."

Pomona looked a little skeptical. Sybill recognized that expression — it was the one everyone gave her when they thought she was either lying or delusional, but they weren't willing to say so out loud. Fine.

"I'll be okay," Sybill continued, glancing around the room to make herself look even more disoriented. "I just have to wait for it to go away on its own." This had the potential to be a misstatement, since Sybill hadn't cast the spell in years, but it had taken a few hours to go away when she was learning it. On the one hand, that involved casting it over and over again under the watchful eye of her grandmother, and today's experience was just for a few minutes. On the other hand, the branching nature of the greenhouses left her magically exhausted, and she was over a decade older now, too. In all likelihood she would be stuck with a magic-resistant headache for the rest of the night, and be forced to drink a great deal to distract herself from it. On the plus side, at least this wasn't wholly inconsistent with her plans.

She shook her head, trying to clear it, and rubbed her eyes. "Will we be able to get more mandrakes?" she asked.

Pomona sighed. "Maybe. When you first came to see me, you know, we had about fifty seeds in storage left over from the last time I taught mandrakes in class. We planted forty of those, then, to keep some seeds in reserve, and a little over thirty germinated. That was just right for a class working in pairs, but we'll need most of them to reach maturity for the restorative draught. Any left over will have to be saved to breed for the future."

"Can't you just go buy more?"

Sprout shook her head. "Believe me, I have been _up_ and down the British Isles looking, and the three nurseries that normally have mandrakes, well, they just have a handful for making seeds, you see, since nobody else has a basilisk around or is trying to, ah, do whatever lesson _you_ have planned. But those three nurseries are either conveniently sold out, or just don't have any. Private individuals don't know to keep seeds — I wrote to some former students, but none of them could help! Oh, and the seed bank at Kew won't talk to me. Personally, I think they don't consider me important enough! Tsk, tsk." She shook her head.

"So," she continued, "that leaves us with the continent, where I was able to scrounge up another dozen seeds from nurseries and another five from my counterpart at Durmstrang — they approved of your lesson plan, by the way! That leaves us with a lot of slow, slow government agencies who will want paperwork and explanations, and we don't have that kind of time."

"You sound like you still have a plan, though . . . actually, can't you collect mandrakes from the wild?"

Pomona laughed. "If it were summer, certainly. We're _tricking_ them in the greenhouse, you see — they don't realize it's winter! I spend a lot of time tricking plants."

After Sybill had acknowledged the joke by at least smiling, Pomona continued. "So we are left with growers in the United States, I think. Maybe other countries, but I know less about them. As it is, I am faced with a dilemma — I have two seed catalogs listing mandrakes, here, one company in, oh, I think Maryland, and the other maybe in Florida? There _must_ others, but I suppose they aren't trying to market to us all the way over here. Now, see, we can authorize payment for up to a certain amount, and just send in the forms, but if that doesn't work out, then we have spent two weeks or more waiting on the albatross relays, all with nothing to show for ourselves! The shipping can get awfully pricey, too."

"Could you go in person? Take a portkey?"

"Yes, yes, that's exactly the other possibility. But whoever goes, and perhaps it ought to be me, I think, will have to take a day or more to do it, and all the portkeys, or lodging if I need to stay a night — those will look like extravagances if anyone scrutinizes my expenses. I can't do anything under the table right now, with the Board of Governors watching us." Pomona stood, lost in thought for a moment. "Well, don't worry," she said, eventually, "I am sure we will work something out. Of course, I'm very busy, and I really _shouldn't_ be away for more than a day, so it will have to wait until I can get all my ducks in a row here, so to speak."

"When do you think that might happen?"

Sprout fidgeted. "I can't say, not for certain. Of course, if someone else were to clear out their schedule . . ."

"I might like that, actually, if Dumbledore lets me go. Um, I can't do it this weekend — I promised Aurora — actually I am supposed to meet her for dinner very soon! Um—"

Pomona cut her off, waving her away. "Oh dear, you should have said something! I'm keeping you waiting with all my babbling on — go! You girls go have fun. Merlin knows, we all need some. Get going! Shoo! Shoo!"

* * *

Saturday, January 26, 1991. (The Next Day)

 

Sirius was waiting in a booth in the Hog's Head, reading the morning _Prophet_ and taking small sips from a too-hot hot cocoa which Dora would just insist on ordering for him if he didn't do so himself. She was supposed to show up sometime around now, give or take half an hour. He had already cast several privacy charms, too, although she would no doubt find them inadequate.

Sirius found the _Prophet_ irritating on a good day, but what passed for weekend news in the British wizarding world was, in a nutshell, inane. Speculation about quidditch matches (complete with several pages of photos), a half page business section covering some market trends and exchange rates between wizard and muggle currencies, concert dates and reviews for the two whole wizard rock bands in the country, a travel section consisting of a single article about the Icelandic counterpart to Diagon Alley and an unrelated stock photo of a land-wight next to a volcano, far, far too many advice columns, and a profusion of ads. International or muggle news in the _Prophet_ was somewhere between rare and entirely nonexistent.

The paper operated under the assumption that almost everyone in Britain counted among its readership, and sold ads based on that claim. The most recently Sirius had heard any numbers had admittedly been over a decade ago, near the end of the war with Voldemort — before the deaths of Lily and James. Back then, though, the wizarding population of Britain had been reduced to a little over 30,000, and the paper's print run was around 8,000 copies, give or take some calculated variation for day of week and special events. There was no way it could have increased by very much since then. The _Prophet_ , then, operated in a very small world, and it was a testament to its enthusiastic self-centeredness that it reliably managed to fill as many pages as it did.

"Wotcher!"

Sirius jumped. "You sneaked up on me! Hello there yourself."

"Is the Prophet that exciting?" she asked, as she hung her cloak up and, as Sirius predicted, started re-casting all the privacy charms.

"Not at all. In fact, I was preoccupied with marveling at how extraordinarily dull it is. I don't know why I bother reading it. What on earth do you plan to talk about that you need so many charms, anyway?"

"That depends," Tonks replied, smiling sweetly and waving at Aberforth, who started over from behind the bar to take their orders.

"Let me guess," said Sirius, "it depends on how my occlumency lessons are coming?"

"That would be one factor, yes . . ." she said, looking thoughtful, as if she wasn't really sure.

After a brief distraction talking to Aberforth, Sirius sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. "Well," he said, "when I asked my teacher that question last week, he said I am doing as well as the average student would be at this point. He didn't say what that meant in absolute terms. I can tell when he starts trying to get into my mind, even when he's really subtle about it, and I can push back some, but I can't put up any sort of respectable fight."

"Hm. I suppose that's good enough for what I wanted to ask. When I was visiting over Christmas, I managed to talk to Kreacher for a few minutes while you were out of the room."

"I'm sure _that_ was entertaining. What happened?"

"Well, he cursed at me a lot, but he actually answered my question, which was who had been in your house between when you were arrested and when you got out of . . ."

"Azkaban?" Sirius finished. He appreciated Dora being sensitive, but there was no use overdoing it. "Interesting," he continued, deciding to let the issue drop, "but I wouldn't trust him, since he probably doesn't know when I was arrested. Remember I hadn't been back there for years at that point."

"So he mentioned. But I eventually worked out that there was a very long stretch between when your mother died and you returned, and during that time he only saw one person. Now, who do you suppose it was?"

"Great, make me guess while worrying me at the same time. Brilliant. Let's see . . . Hardly anyone knows where the house is . . . it has some excellent wards, too, and the floo would have been turned off once mother died. When I checked the wards, the only people on them were family members, and they've all been in Azkaban since before she died. Unless I'm wrong about that?"

"So far as I know they are genuinely still there. So," she said, grinning at presenting him with a puzzle, "who would both know where it was and be able to bypass the wards without breaking them?"

"Damn. They'd have to be very powerful, right? A house elf! Was it a house elf?"

Tonks look surprised. "Actually I didn't think of that, which was stupid of me. You should look for a way to ward against them. I don't trust people like Lucius Malfoy not to send their house elves after you. But that wasn't it."

"I suppose I didn't have enough things to be paranoid about, did I. Wonderful. I'm stumped. May I have a hint?"

"Who has a means of transportation that can bypass wards?"

"That implies it's someone we know . . . Fawkes! It was Dumbledore with Fawkes. What on earth was he doing at the Black place?"

"Kreacher said he was retrieving a dark artifact in order to destroy it."

"Why did the little bugger never mention it?"

"Maybe because you hate each other?"

"Oh, yes, probably that. So what was it?"

"He said it was a locket which your brother stole from Voldemort and wasn't able to destroy himself."

"Reggie? Wait, whose side was he on?"

"Apparently ours, after all."

"Wow. So Reggie was a spy. I thought he was dark, through and through . . . never thought he would be brave enough to do that, either. I hope . . ."

"I think he would have understood that you couldn't have known, and you shouldn't feel bad about whatever . . . colorful things you said about him. I think you'll have to keep it up, though, in case his secrets still need protecting from the other Death Eaters."

"Right. Darn. Merlin, I'm sorry Reggie."

"Think of it this way," offered Tonks, "just because he thought Voldemort was a bad guy and worth defeating doesn't mean you would have gotten along with him if the war hadn't happened."

"I suppose. Ten years ago I would have been much more enthusiastic about calling him a right bastard regardless, you know."

Tonks realized she needed to move the conversation onwards to less somber topics.

"So," she said, "the reason I bring this up now is that it might be good to ask Dumbledore whether he managed to destroy it yet, and how he did it. If your brother couldn't figure out how, given the entire Black library . . ."

". . . then it might pose a bit of a challenge for Dumbledore, right? I'm sure he'll enjoy it."

"If he doesn't get overconfident and let it injure him somehow. I don't think he can afford to just hire Gringott's curse breakers — they might be able to do something. They probably weren't an option for your brother at the time, I suppose?"

Sirius nodded. "Being a wanted Death Eater probably kept him out of Diagon Alley."

"Anyway," said Tonks, "Dumbledore has a lot of friends, but I get the feeling he hates to give up a good secret when he can do everything himself."

"Right. So, I'll send him an owl."

"If he _did_ destroy it, I'd be really curious to find out how! My bet's on fiendfyre, but that's dangerous and inelegant, so he'd probably use it as a last resort. I wonder what he thinks the locket was supposed to do, too."

At this point their food showed up, along with a second mug of cocoa for Sirius. "Wow," said Tonks, "food smells really good right now. Hogwarts has great food, of course, but there's nothing like heavy, greasy, pub food. Your cocoa smells amazing, too . . . wait a second."

She leaned over and sniffed the mug. Sirius smiled and raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to figure out what was odd.

"You had Aberforth spike it!" she exclaimed. "Smells really strong, too. What's in it?"

"No idea. I think he got creative and added a little of everything, honestly — want to taste it?"

Dora pretended to be shocked. "But Sirius! Aren't you afraid of corrupting me?"

He considered this. "No," he said, "I consider it my _duty_ to corrupt you! Now, see, if Aberforth had spiked it with _cheap_ firewhiskey or flat butterbeer, I would never let you have any. I'd be teaching you to put up with lousy alcohol!"

"Good answer," she said, taking a sip of his drink. "I knew you were my favorite cousin for a reason. Mm, this is really good! But I can't tell what flavor it is either. Huh. So, what have you been up to?"

"Filling Hogwarts with chickens wasn't good enough for you?"

Tonks grinned. "That was last week. Impressive, though!"

Sirius made a mock bow, as best as sitting in a pub booth would allow. "Thank you. I have spent some of the past week fighting with Kreacher to make him finish making the last parts of the house presentable."

Tonks looked puzzled. "Shouldn't you two have come to an understanding by now? I mean, he's a house elf, shouldn't his urge to clean something overwhelm his urge to stand there and whine at you?"

"Apparently not . . . I can't say I'm certain what counts as 'sane' for a house elf, but whatever it is, I'm sure Kreacher doesn't qualify. Never did, really. He's older than me, you know."

"Huh. That's easy to forget."

"What? I'm not _that_ old and decrepit!"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Tonks looked horrified. "I didn't mean it that way — wait. You!"

"Yes, me! Got you! I used to be able to look properly indignant for more than a few seconds, though. I will have to work on that." Sirius looked thoughtful for a moment. "So, did you see that interview with Malfoy that the Prophet ran?"

"Evading the question?" she said, laughing. "You should have heard what your Slytherin . . ." Here Tonks paused, gave a hint of a leering grin which Sirius had never seen on her, and with emphasis said " _friends_ . . . made out of that one!"

"Hey, don't use that tone of voice with me, young lady! I have done nothing inappropriate with those specific girls of the specific variety of inappropriateness which you are, specifically, imputing to me!"

"Okay, I'm not touching that one. _Seriously_ , though," she said, pausing to stick her tongue out at him, "I wasn't very happy with Malfoy using Harry like that. He could have gone much further — I know I would have, if I were a scheming psychopath in his shoes." Sirius nodded; Lucius had held back.

"Anyway," Tonks continued, "it's not that the Dursleys aren't awful, it's just . . . I worry about him getting picked on, and it just seems unfair that Harry might have to go off to Hogwarts with his name being a rallying cry against muggles."

"I suppose . . ." Sirius said.

Tonks sighed. "You look unconvinced, which worries me. Speak."

"Woof?"

"No."

"Fine, be that way." He stuck out his tongue. "At the end of the day, though, I'm still mad at the Dursleys myself. Your mother says she has photos, just in case, and that I really don't want to see them—"

"—You don't." Tonks shook her head for emphasis. "Trust me."

"Right. So, I can't honestly say it would be a bad thing to prevent magical children from being placed with muggle relatives ever again like that. And Harry's going to get all sorts of attention, wanted and unwanted, no matter what he does."

"So you aren't worried about him?"

Sirius shrugged. "Not about that, no. A little politics over guardianship rules hardly seems like standard Death Eater operations. It's just politics. I expect Harry and everyone else will have plenty of other things to be concerned with. And the next Dark Lord is simply not going to go around killing muggles while shouting 'Remember Harry Potter!'"

"What an awful idea!" said Tonks, looking horrified. "Don't suggest it to anyone."

"Like I said, don't worry so much. Of course, if I can think of it, so can Malfoy. Harry will have to be prepared for it. I will talk to him about it. You should too. Speaking of Harry, do you have any mail to pass on?"

Tonks shook her head. "I haven't been up there yet this term. I actually haven't been able to get away from teachers and prefects during the day at all, actually."

"No?" He looked disappointed.

"Well, I'm sure I could if I really wanted to. But I kind of want to pick the ways I risk getting into trouble carefully."

Sirius eyed her skeptically. "I'll let that slide. For now."

"It's not that I'm as worried about the basilisk any more—"

"—Oh right, I forgot about it. I was going to ask about that. With just petrification, it's like they were taunting everyone. Making it obvious they _could_ have taken off the sunglasses."

"Sunglasses? Anyway, I'm inclined to think they _were_ taunting us, or at least, taunting somebody. Although, I can only speculate wildly as to why anyone would do that. But Dumbledore and the other professors have actually taken it seriously. They've gone all over the school quietly adding wards, alarms, enchantments, locks on disused doors — you know, I heard they sealed off Moaning Myrtle's bathroom?"

"That was the ghost who was always crying or yelling at people, right?"

"I guess you wouldn't have gone into a girl's bathroom without a good prank in mind, but you were there for seven years! She's the ghost of the girl who was killed by the basilisk the last time the Chamber was opened. She'll tell that to anyone who talks to her for long enough."

"Let me guess. No one talks to her?"

"She's nearly unbearable to talk to, and she's not one of the castle's more coherent ghosts to start with."

"Sooo . . . is that how you get your information? Talking to ghosts no one else can tolerate? And I suppose they can go places without being noticed, and no one would pay them much mind . . ."

Tonks was merely raising her eyebrows.

Sirius went on. "Oh, that must be it. And you could pretend to be a teacher to fool them, too! It's perfect! And you're not denying it."

Tonks grinned. "Well," she said, "it's a good theory, and you should never go around denying things if you don't have to . . ."

"Of course. And Dumbledore can't use legilimency on them, or veritaserum. Dora, that's brilliant! Although it doesn't explain how you knew about me, or Harry . . ." Sirius stared off into space thinking.

"House elves," she deadpanned.

"Really?"

Tonks shrugged, then turned her attention to the pile of chips that had come with her sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that in canon the fact the monster was a basilisk was a big mystery. I find that thoroughly implausible, so I'm assuming everybody knows. If the divergence bugs you, just say Tonks tipped off Dumbledore early on in an anonymous note. I figure Hagrid hasn't been cleared because of the same kind of miserably inefficient judicial system that failed Sirius for a decade.
> 
> Next few chapters might be a while, since I can't just post them as they are written. I will try to keep the current story status updated in my profile every so often.


	57. Chapter 57: Slytherin's Monster, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot, sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying, slowly, to get AO3 caught up to what I've posted elsewhere. The idea of formatting is more annoying than the actual experience. :P 
> 
> I'll give a story status update after another two chapters.
> 
> For this chapter, speech via patronus is in italics. Other things are also in italics; I'm sure you can figure it out.

Chapter 57: Slytherin's Monster, Part I

 

In early February, Dumbledore announced that most of the security precautions at Hogwarts would be relaxed, leaving in place only the usual curfew, which the students were reminded was to be taken very seriously. The school reacted with the predictable wild guessing concerning what new, secret measures, if any, had been put in place, and whether the staff was as sick of escorting everyone around as the students were of being escorted.

Two weeks later, at lunchtime on a Monday, Fred and George Weasley approached the staff table and reported that no one had seen their brother Charlie since Friday evening. He had missed Quidditch practice the day before, despite the upcoming game with Ravenclaw next weekend. Simple pointing spells had failed; a few staff members quickly confirmed that result.

The twins tried to be reassuring:

 

"We're sure it wasn't the, um . . ."

". . . basilisk. Charlie doesn't go out in the halls at night . . ."

". . . but he does go to the Forbidden Forest . . ."

". . . all the time! So we think maybe you should look there . . ."

". . . but you should floo our mum first and ask her to check the clock."

 

Dumbledore stood up at once, taking the boys with him to his office. On the way, once they were out of earshot, he stopped and turned to them.

"I am aware," he said, "that you boys have in your possession a remarkable artifact. Would I be correct in presuming you have already consulted it?"

The twins looked at each other in shock.

"It will not be taken from you." Dumbledore waited a moment and tried to rein in his serious expression — intimidating Fred and George wouldn't be helpful. Finally he inferred his answer from their gestures. "Ah. Very well. I would have been remiss were I not to pursue every option to find your brother."

 

The twins nodded, accepting that. "Um," said George, "there are lots of places not on the map, that are still in the castle . . ."

"I would imagine so," said Dumbledore. "Do you have any reason to think Charlie might be in one of them?"

 

The twins shook their heads.

"No . . ."

". . . not at all . . ."

". . . Charlie spends _all_ his free time outdoors, even in the winter!"

"He never even leaves Gryffindor Tower by the door if he can help it . . ."

". . . so he wouldn't have been in the halls, and we know he goes to the Forbidden Forest all the time . . ."

". . . but he could be anywhere in it. We really don't know! But he never misses practice . . ."

". . . so he wouldn't have just decided not to come back. Probably."

 

Dumbledore sighed, making a mental note to check the wards around Gryffindor tower.

Once they reached his office, he flooed the Burrow. Molly Weasley, in a mixture of worry and irritation, reported that the clock simply said "School". It was agreed that this was encouraging but not very informative, since the next most likely options were "Mortal Peril" and "Lost".

The Headmaster observed that while Charlie was certainly lost from everyone else's perspective, it had to be Charlie's perspective alone that the clock reflected. Molly confirmed this; for a parent, it was one of the clock's most exasperating features. It would have been convenient, sort of, if its hands could point to "Petrified By A Basilisk In The Third Floor Hallway, A Few Feet From The Painting Of An Owl In A Hat". Unfortunately Arthur had failed to anticipate the need for that when ordering the clock, a fact the twins would tease their father about again and again in the future.

 

After closing the floo connection, Dumbledore saw that the twins were looking at him expectantly. He stroked his beard.

"Is there anyone else your brother might have spoken to?"

 

The twins shrugged.

"Hagrid?"

"Professor Kettleburn?"

 

To the Headmaster's dismay, this turned out to exhaust the pool of people who had ever wanted to hear about anything Charlie did outside of quidditch. But it was a start.

* * *

While the prospect of a protracted and thorough search of the grounds was much more appealing to Albus than the paperwork which otherwise awaited him, he was not so irresponsible as to go rushing off without trying simpler methods. These, uniformly, failed.

Further attempts at pointing spells, or at least the ones Albus knew that could be cast without a lengthy ritual, did nothing. Apparating several miles from the school allowed Albus to obtain generalized results, confirming Charlie's location within the Forbidden Forest, but at any closer approach the spells failed.

House elves shook their heads. An owl returned from the forest an hour or so after being sent; Albus guessed there had been fifteen minutes of confused searching followed by forty-five of being ashamed of itself. Fawkes simply trilled when Dumbledore asked him to find Charlie.

Albus cancelled all classes for the day. Students were sent to their dormitories.

The entire staff was called to the meeting room off of the Great Hall, chattering as they came in.

Albus watched Pomona lean across the table to Sybill. "I'm sure his parents must by beside themselves with worry," she said. "Ah, Sybill, do you suppose . . ."

Trelawney waited expectantly, looking especially wide-eyed and owlish through her glasses.

"Do you suppose, I mean, that spell you said you used in the greenhouses . . ."

"Oh! It won't work outdoors. It would go all over the place, I'd pass out in a few seconds, and the spell would end."

Sprout grimaced as some of the other faculty tried to disguise their amusement. It was clear this sounded like an excuse to them.

Nervously, Sprout tried to proceed diplomatically. "Just in case, you know, if you _do_ know anything that would work . . ."

"Oh! Uh, he's probably somewhere protected from scrying, right? But we might not have much time . . . I would need a calf, about three months old—"

"No!" Several expressions indicated this was unacceptable; the others rolled their eyes in skepticism.

"Oh, sorry. They are difficult to get. Then, a few hours with the Hogwarts ovens — I'd need to make bread — and, uh, five secretary birds—"

"No!"

"Right, short notice. The brain and spinal column of—"

" **NO!** "

"Oh . . . I think the rest would all be considered Dark Arts. I'm sorry."

* * *

Aurora stopped Sybill in the hall. Dumbledore had taken the faculty he considered competent for the task and headed for the forest, leaving the two of them behind with a few others.

"Sybill?"

"Oh! I'm sorry. Hi."

"Those were real rituals you were describing, correct?"

"Oh. Yes. I don't know if they would be powerful enough. Hogwarts has some very strange magic."

"What was the brain from?"

"Steppe owl. The nearest one is probably in Russia, though. It wasn't a very good idea, but I was nervous."

"It seemed that Professor Sprout almost believed in the . . . Maze-Walker of Ur?"

"Yes, that was it."

"But the others did not."

"No."

"Once their opinion of you is fixed, it does not change. It does not matter what you do." This was stated as fact.

Sybill nodded, slowly. "I shouldn't rely on that, though."

Aurora laughed. "I keep forgetting this is a good thing for you!"

They walked in silence for a while.

"Could we try the Eye?" Aurora asked.

"I was going to! You're welcome to try, too, of course . . ."

"Good. I will bring the vodka."

* * *

On Tuesday, March 5, at precisely 2:16 AM, eight of the Headmaster's alarms were activated simultaneously. This woke him up with a start and elicited a screech from Fawkes, who teleported to the bedroom to escape the noise in the office.

Albus had no time for affectionate comments to his familiar. Given the alarms he was hearing, this would be trouble and would not be over quickly. Something or someone had passed through the plane of several sets of outer wards.

Albus ran to the bathroom, then to his closet, and threw on a robe he had not worn in several years. Four minutes after waking, Elder Wand in hand, he found himself completely unable to open his bedroom door. It was magically locked, and he became increasingly concerned as successive unlocking spells failed.

Although he could not distinguish them all, there were now eleven devices sounding. The intruder was probably standing at the main doors — assuming the problems with his door were not a coincidence, it was something that was either extremely powerful, or interacting very oddly with the castle's wards, or both.

He was unable to apparate to his office. Something was definitely wrong with the wards. Rather than let him waste time blasting the door open (it was highly reinforced), Fawkes took him to the office, where the phoenix was rewarded with a silencing spell around his perch.

2:25 AM. Fourteen devices were sounding, some obviously malfunctioning. Dumbledore checked them all methodically.

Something had come into the Entrance Courtyard, then opened and passed through the main doors. While he watched, another three alarms sounded, indicating it had gotten as far as the Grand Staircase. Four others that should logically have gone off had not, which was puzzling. Albus took a minute to fiddle unproductively with several adjustable devices.

2:29. A half dozen instruments squealed, beeped, clicked, or chimed their last, only to be replaced by about the same number being newly set off. Thirty seconds later saw another half dozen break or overload. Albus had lost track; these were no longer useful (and puzzling out the meaning of the mysteriously unactivated ones was impossible without more information). There were ways to overload monitoring charms, but these were not failing in a way that suggested deliberate interference. At least, he couldn't imagine any kind of bizarre accident that could break them like this.

 

One more thing to try:

"Could I get a house elf here?"

Nothing happened. That was a bad sign in the short term, though no worse than the headmaster's own inability to apparate in his school. In the long term it suggested there were existing ways — maybe existing magics of the castle — that could control house elf apparation. He had no time to be excited about that, though.

Albus considered, and rejected, contacting other staff members at this point. Whatever was happening was too dangerous to ask anyone else to approach. Although he had feared a Death Eater attack initially, truthfully he did not expect to find ordinary human intruders anymore, at least not unaccompanied by some powerful monster, or perhaps some magical apparatus or artifact. None of the possibilities were good.

Yes, best to leave most of the staff asleep for now, if possible, and alert them with a patronus if need be. Erasmus was supposed to be patrolling; Albus summoned his his silver phoenix to contact him. It was 2:32.

" _Erasmus. Something has entered the castle through the main doors. It came through to the Grand Staircase. Do not approach it. Where are you?_ "

Thirty seconds, and the patronus returned with Eeles' reply: " _Third floor, 'round the corner from the stairs. Just passed the library. Haven't seen or heard a damn thing. Now what?_ "

Albus wished Eeles could cast the patronus charm himself, because the ability to send back regular reports would be extremely useful at this point. It was a difficult spell, though, and dementors weren't exactly a monster of the wilderness. They would have to improvise:

" _Silence yourself. Head for the stairs in the Clock Tower and try to get to the sixth floor. Do you know where Minerva's suite is?_ "

Another thirty-five seconds. " _Got it — Silencio, Muffliato. Her name's on the door, right? Just a second . . ._ "

There was a pause, then Eeles continued. " _Crap. Go!_ "

The last word was evidently directed to the patronus itself. It wasn't clear why Eeles had shooed it away — probably he heard or saw something and wanted to avoid having the patronus draw attention. There was nothing Albus could do to help him without risking exactly that; Erasmus was on his own for now, whether he knew what he was doing or not.

Albus revised his plan. He was not a complete fool.

He gave a new message to his patronus:

"Go to each of the heads of house, starting with Severus and Minerva. Do not wait for responses, and return when you are finished. Tell them this: Something dangerous has come into the castle. I cannot tell from my instruments what it may be. I believe Erasmus encountered it on the third floor near the library, then shooed my patronus away. The castle has locked many doors and only Fawkes is able to travel freely; wait for him and he will take you to your houses. Stand guard and alert the other staff. I will look for Erasmus now. Good luck to us all."

 

Albus wasted another thirty seconds on the door to his office before giving up. "Fawkes!" He summoned the phoenix to shoulder. "Base of the Grand Staircase. Now." They were gone in a ball of flames.

Blackness. The torches and lamps were all out, from the ground level upwards to whatever the topmost floor was right now.

He listened carefully. Silence, which meant the staircases had stopped moving. No grumbling portraits, either. Enhancing his hearing, he listened again; still nothing. A frontal Death Eater assault would probably not look at all like this.

He would not need to travel by phoenix fire for the next few minutes, at least.

"Fawkes, you know what to do, right?"

"Breet."

"Thank you, old friend. Come to me when you are done. I expect I will need you soon enough."

Fawkes vanished in his ball of flames. It was 2:44.

 

He decided that the safest course for the rest of the school was to draw the intruder's attention toward himself. He hoped the basilisk was indeed sealed in the Chamber of Secrets for now, because he could not afford to go blindfolded into whatever lay ahead.

"Lumos Maxima!"

The headmaster's ball of light shot upwards, illuminating the stairwell floor by floor as it went. It was enough to confirm that the stairs were indeed motionless, but before reaching the top, the spell winked out.

"Lumos!" Albus cast it normally this time. The shadows of every corner, railing, unlit lamp, and carved ornament moved eerily around him as he walked towards the stairs. He cast several protective charms, then disillusioned himself for good measure before stepping cautiously onto the first step. The stairs remained stationary. For now, that was good. A few seconds later, Minerva's patronus swooped down out of the darkness to perch four steps in front of him. Her voice echoed up and down the stairwell as the little cat moved its mouth. Albus had never quite gotten used to that effect.

" _Albus, what on earth is going on? This is no time to play the mysterious old man -- I'm locked in my quarters!_ "

So much for any sort of discretion. He had to smile. After casting a silencing bubble that encompassed himself and the cat, he replied. " _I suppose I didn't need to sneak up on anything, after all. That was unfortunately very loud, and I am quite exposed here -- just a moment. I am walking to the second floor. Our intruder's presence has destroyed half the intruments in my office, I think, but beyond that I know nothing. We are literally in the dark, in fact, as it has turned out all the lights._ " That might hold her for a few minutes.

Apparently the other three heads of house had simply taken him at his word, since he did not hear back from them.

The stairs to the next floor were on the far side; he had to walk around. Silence still prevailed. That worried him. Whatever Eeles had run into had either walked into the Defense Professor's silencing spells or was using some of its own. Or it was finished with Eeles, and waiting for Albus. Or it had simply moved on by now, and might be extremely difficult to locate.

After finally reaching the third floor, he rested his wand in his palm. "Point me Erasmus Eeles." The wand merely spun in his hand. Something had deliberately obscured the Defense Professor's location. Maybe Fawkes would be able to find him, although Albus wasn't sure he should risk sending the phoenix into danger.

It was 2:54. Albus sent the light from his _lumos_ around the stairwell, revealing a few sleeping portraits, and a few that were awake and puzzled-looking, but nothing else. Very well.

There were five corridors leading away from the stairs here, two of which would take him towards the library. He shot his ball of light off down the nearest one, down to where the hallway turned. Along the way it revealed closed doors, a suit of armor, and some recessed niches that held sculpture — possible hiding places.

"Hominem revelio!" Nothing.

He sent three balls of light to stand before these; one for each niche, so he could see if anything was flushed by what he was about to try. Unfortunately, experience had taught him that this had to be dealt with methodically.

First, bursts of purple fireworks — his signature attention-getting magic. Nothing. In a pitched battle, the right strategy would be to send concussive spells into any potentially hostile space, once allies had a chance to identify themselves. He wasn't sure what he was dealing with here, though.

At this point Fawkes reappeared, settled on Albus' shoulder, and peered curiously down the hall.

"What do you think, Fawkes?"

Unfortunately the phoenix took this as a request for reconnaissance and took off towards the nearest globe of light.

"Fawkes, no!"

It was too late — Fawkes was at the first niche almost immediately, then past a set of armor, past the second niche , then the third — weaving from side to side, but not reacting. He wheeled around at the end of the hall, then disappeared down it in one direction, then the other. A moment later Albus heard a burst of flame, and Fawkes reappeared on his shoulder.

"Trt."

"That was unnecessary, but thank you. We need to keep moving."

Albus thought for a moment, then blocked the entrance to that corridor with a conjured sheet of chain mail. He added a few bells and jinxes for good measure. The iron would vanish eventually, but in the meantime it was mostly non-magical and required banishment, not dispelling. Anyone trying to get through would have to carefully silence everything or risk revealing their presence.

He had gotten to the stage of sending fireworks down the second hall when he felt Fawkes tense and ruffle his feathers.

"Fft. Tr." Fawkes tensed and dug his claws into the shoulder he was perched on.

"Hmm?"

"Breet!" There was a burst of flame, and they were in the Great Hall. The lights were out, but everything was dimly illuminated by the artificial starlight from the ceiling.

"What was that for? Is it in here?"

"Terr-ooo." It was a noise Albus had come to regard as apologetic. Fawkes nuzzled his ear, said "prt!", and vanished in flames.

"Hominem revelio! Lumos Maxima!"

This time the light persisted, but the hall appeared to be empty. A series of detection spells confirmed this, at least to a reasonable degree of confidence.

The doors were, as he expected, locked.

"Fawkes?"

The Great Hall was one of the most defensible locations in the castle. It had thick doors and its own set of wards. When there was an emergency, staff and students tended to congregate there. Breaking the door down would be extremely difficult, and would, given the ancient magic involved, possibly leave no chance of full repairs. It would be an absolute last resort. The other entrance — the side door to the staff room — posed its own challenges. Fawkes perhaps knew all this.

Albus could only guess he had been deposited here to keep him out of trouble. It was insulting. There would be words about this later.

 

He took the opportunity to check in with his other staff members.

He woke Hagrid first, since he was the only one not in the castle.

" _Hrm? Aw, Fang, no. It's the middle o' the night._ " There was a pause as the patronus repeated its message; it wasn't very intelligent about what to record. " _Ah, hrm, Professor, sorry about that. I'll jus' peek out the door here . . . Don' see a thing. Quiet, too. . . . No, nothin'. Should I go up ter the castle an' have a look?_ "

" _No, stay where you are, but keep watch. I will check back with you later. Thank you, Hagrid._ "

 

Sybill and Aurora, both with quarters in high towers, could see nothing out of the ordinary. Sybill added something about the castle having too many dimensions, and that she was very sorry about something, then followed this with a half minute of mumbling that the patronus didn't pick up. Aurora sounded confused and asked why Albus wasn't seeking outside help, and whether she should try to break a window.

The answer to the second was a clear 'no, not yet', but he didn't have any really good response the first. He had seriously considered sending his patronus off to Amelia, except that he didn't want to call in the aurors — potentially putting them in harm's way — without some concrete idea of what they might be able to do to help.

His contemplation was interrupted, though, by the distant sounds of Fawkes' screeches, several thumps, and a ringing bang akin to hitting stone with a sledgehammer. Within the space of a minute these came nearer — presumably down the Grand Staircase — and were soon clearly at the main entrance, not far from the Great Hall. They faded away.

" _Hagrid, did you just see anything leave the castle?_ "

The reply came with the faint sounds of Fawkes screeching in the background. " _Well, firs' there was Fawkes callin' — still is —, an' then somethin' big an' long — sorry, Professor, but it looked like a big snake — too far away ter see its eyes, should've been more careful, but 's gone now — jus' a moment ago, too — poured i'self right over the bridge an' fell down the hill. Sounded like it fell aways, but it's a long ways down righ' there, too. Oh, Fawkes is af'er it still! . . . Never heard him so mad! . . . Oh, an' there goes somebody on a broom, I think, tearin' off over me — never seen a broom go so fas', couldn' get a look . . ._ "

There was more screeching, followed by a distant, echoing series of cracks. " _Soun's like it broke the ice! An' Fawkes is down there, circlin', maybe . . . doesn' sound like he's lettin' up, either . . . you'd better go back ter Professor Dumbledore an' ask wha' ter do next._ "

" _Thank you!_ ," Albus replied when the patronus reappeared a few seconds later, " _I believe that is good news indeed! And, yes, I think the doors have just unlocked! Please listen to see what Fawkes does, and watch for any other brooms._ "

The doors, finally responding to him, swung open in front of the headmaster as he ran to the entrance hall.

"Lumos Maxima!"

The ball of light hurtled before him.

The main doors stood open, letting in cold air and Fawkes' cries. Dumbledore sent his _lumos_ out across the entrance courtyard, revealing a wide, undulating track leading away towards the bridge. He attempted an apparation again; this time he succeeded, fetching Filius from the Ravenclaw tower and going straight to the bridge.

"Fawkes! Get away from the lake!" he yelled. There was a burst of fire from below, and a corresponding one a few feet away as the phoenix appeared on the railing. "If you want to be helpful, get me Minerva and Severus," he said, and sent his _lumos_ into the chasm as Fawkes disappeared.

It wasn't until they had walked most of the way to the center of the bridge, and Fawkes had returned with the other heads of house, that they spotted a black, jagged area in the ice far below. A combined _glacius_ froze it over. The risk to the various lake-dwellers was regrettable, but with any luck the basilisk would succumb to hypothermia before it could escape or do any harm.

* * *

At the base of the Grand Starcase, there was spattered, dark-red blood and a variety of broken debris. Part of a stone banister had been dramatically smashed. Several portraits had been knocked down and damaged; their occupants had fled elsewhere. A lantern had been knocked off the wall on the second floor. Its bent metal frame had bounced into a dark corner, leaving scattered glass shards everywhere.

The damage extended up to the third floor, starting not far from the point where Fawkes had tensed and flamed Albus away. By the time they arrived there, the lights were working again.

In that corridor, several suits of armor had been knocked over, and there were traces of blood smeared on the floor. Turning the corner, there was a foul smell, thicker smears of blood, and further down, an area where the floors, walls, and ceiling were smoking.

"Stop!" shouted Severus, adding, simply, "venom."

"Fawkes couldn't have done that himself, could he?" asked Flitwick.

"Perhaps," said Severus, "he might have tricked it, causing it to break its tooth on the wall. It seems unlikely, though."

Albus nodded. The basilisk was probably too effective a hunter to make errors like that. He hadn't mentioned the rider on the broom to anyone else, but it was a safe guess from the scene before them that Fawkes had not faced the snake alone.

"Severus, I believe you are best able to deal with this. Please try to make this hall passable again while taking note of any residual magic that might let us reconstruct what happened."

Severus nodded, but said nothing, having already begun casting diagnostic spells over the area.

"Minerva, Filius, Pomona — please look for Erasmus. It is my hope that he will not have been taken beyond this floor. If he is injured, time may be of the essence." Albus sighed. "If we do not finish by morning, we will need to cordon off the area to prevent students from wandering through."

* * *

The portraits would have to be sent out for repair, but Albus was able to fix the stonework and lantern on his own.

The broken bannister was the obvious candidate for the sound of metal on stone that Albus had heard, but he had so far not elected to mention that. No one else had questioned how a basilisk and a phoenix could have smashed stone in that way. Albus verified that the blood all had a single source, took a sample of it, and cleaned the staircase up entirely — well before anyone else might have gotten to it.

By 5:30 AM Erasmus was still missing. Albus woke several other faculty members, gave them minimal details, then told them to eat breakfast quickly and join in the search.

 

He didn't hear from Severus for another half hour. The man had been meticulous in his investigation of the venom-splattered hall. It had been immediately obvious to him that the altercation had begun in a nearby storeroom, but he did not even look inside before he had scanned the hallway in every way he knew — thoroughly enough that all details could be seen in a penseive.

Severus spent an equivalent amount of time on the door itself. Some massive burst of magic had obliterated what he could only suppose had been concealment wards. Since these appeared to have interacted with the castle's own magic, it would have been extremely interesting to be able to study them, but there wasn't enough organized magic left to work with.

The room itself smelled strongly of reptile urine. The basilisk — the existence of which had been definitively resolved by the venom in the hall — had most likely stayed in the room for over a month. There was a pile of droppings in the corner which Severus had dissected, concluding that the basilisk had eaten three house elves.

(Zent later confirmed that they were missing, but was baffled by Albus' attempt to explain why this should have been reported. The idea that humans might have cared one way or the other was too alien.)

Severus' theory was that while it was in the Chamber of Secrets, the basilisk remained in a magically-induced state of quiescence, leaving it with a minimal need for food. Removed from that environment, awake, and left to its own devices by whomever had released it, the basilisk had simply done what came naturally when the house elves had appeared in front of it. Assuming its metabolism resembled that of other snakes, it had been adequately fed during its stay on the third floor.

* * *

Albus had one more task to take care of personally before he could in fairness turn to anything else. Back in his office, he dug around in drawers which he had not opened in years, looking for a box he had not opened in decades.

Here was a scroll of blank parchment, a small spray bottle, and a foot-long metal cylinder with a screw-on lid. Albus cut off enough parchment for a small note, reached for his quill, and, with great care, composed his message, glyph by glyph. This was a language that few other wizards had bothered to learn. So far as Albus knew, no one else in the country could actually write in it.

The spray bottle was the sort used for perfume. Albus squeezed the little bulb, spreading fixative over the note (and much of his desk). This was followed by a further charm for waterproofing. The note was rolled up and put in the cylinder. Albus sighed, then rooted through the drawer a second time, at last coming up with a large, six-chambered whistle.

He apparated to the far end of the lake. Better safe than sorry. There was a bitter wind and the snow crunched under his shoes. Sunrise wouldn't be for another hour and a half. He cast a warming charm on himself, then a cutting charm on the lake ice. Soon he levitated a disc of it, several feet wide, bringing it up and setting it down somewhere back in the woods.

Albus blew the whistle and waited.

Five minutes later, nothing had happened. He renewed his warming charm and blew the whistle again.

It _was_ very cold. He sympathized, but the note needed to be delivered. Extremely carefully, he cast a _sonorus_ on the whistle, reinforced the ice near him, then lay down on his stomach. He held the whistle under the water and blew. It looked ridiculous and sent up a stream of bubbles, but it ought to have been effective. He blew once more for good measure, then stood back up.

Ten minutes later, he was still standing there. The squid never arrived. It was not a good sign.

Reluctantly, he cast a series of charms on the message tube and sent it on its way, then refroze the hole in the lake.

 

The lake was extremely deep, and very few creatures could survive the pressure at the depth of the Mer-peoples' village. The basilisk was unlikely to go down that far, at least not voluntarily, but the warning had to be delivered nevertheless.

* * *

Albus returned to his office.

 

"Well, Fawkes, Erasmus predicted a circus. I'm afraid we are now obligated to create one. I will need you to deliver something for me in a few minutes."

"Tshroo."

The letter (and phoenix) were sent off to Amelia, with instructions in the letter to floo him, and to Fawkes to ensure the letter was actually read.

He summoned an elf to bring him breakfast, and had managed to eat peacefully for several minutes before the floo 'ding'ed and Amelia's head appeared in it.

"Albus, what do I have to do? I have praised this bird over and over, since I assume this note is for real. But he just keeps going 'dreet!' at me and won't leave me alone! Oh, fine, there he goes. Did you tell him to not let up until I flooed you?"

Albus smiled as the phoenix reappeared. "No, not exactly. That was his idea. And yes, the note is for real. Hogwarts has a full-grown basilisk in its lake. Or at least, it did several hours ago, and we have seen no sign of it escaping."

This was misleading; no one had been watching the lake.

"That's . . . lovely, Albus. Thank you for letting me know. What on earth do you want me to do about it?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea."

"I was afraid of that. I suppose you will need some sort of auror presence in Hogsmeade . . ."

"I would have gone there myself if you did not. Thank you."

She thought for a moment. "I think we can make the basilisk the problem of the Dragon Research and Restraint people. Who knows, they might even be happy about it. Is there anything else you think I should know?"

"It apparently ate several house elves recently, so we do not believe it is hungry."

"Wonderful. Anything else?"

"No."

"Fine. I will. . . do something. Damn it." She ended the connection.

Albus sent Fawkes to deliver notes to several people in Hogsmeade, starting with his brother. The notes were all variations on 'This bird has chased a basilisk into the lake. Keep the goats indoors.'


	58. Slytherin's Monster, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A medical examination. Humor.

At 9:03 AM, Erasmus Eeles walked into the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey bustled out of her office.

"Well, that's a relief. Did Albus send you here?"

"What? No, I came here on my own. I didn't see anyone along the way."

"They are supposed to be looking for you. Just a moment."

Madam Pomfrey cast several spells in quick succession. He laughed.

"Good thinking. I'm really me though. No polyjuice, no glamours, no metamorphing or whatever."

"Are you hurt?"

"Not that I can tell. But I woke up a few minutes ago in the corner of an empty classroom, and the last thing I remember before that was talking to Albus' patronus last night. I regard lost time as a very bad sign." Madam Pomfrey nodded. "From the sounds of students going about their business, I deduced that there was no ongoing emergency. Consequently I felt justified in coming straight here."

Madam Pomfrey had wasted no time, and started in on diagnostic spells even as Eeles was talking. "Well," she said, "everyone still thinks you're missing, and Fawkes chased the basilisk into the lake, but close enough. You're covered in magical residue."

She spent another minute casting spells, then pointed to the closest bed that could be curtained off.

"Get over there," she said.

"It might be the armor."

"We'll see about that. Strip." She drew the curtains closed.

Erasmus plopped his hat and gloves down on a little cart near the bed, and his outer robes on a chair. This revealed one of the more impressive suits of dragonhide armor Poppy had ever seen. Eeles, told to patrol the halls, did not mess around. Off came his boots, and off came his armor, revealing ordinary (for Eeles, at least) clothes underneath.

"Aren't you hot going around in all that?"

"Cooling charms. Anyway, the armor's off."

She waved her wand a few times. "Sorry, it's not the armor. I'd ask what part of 'Strip' you didn't understand, but obviously it was the part that involved removing any regular clothes at all."

"Fine, fine."

She waited, practically tapping her foot with impatience as Eeles stripped down to underwear and socks.

She rolled her eyes. "That will do for now. Get on the bed. Right." She worked in silence for a minute.

"You are absolutely covered in discrete spots of magical residue. And that's just the skin I can see without moving you. Don't go anywhere. I'll be back in a moment."

She returned, pulling the curtain closed behind her again. "I had Albus cancel your classes for the day. He was extremely relieved to hear you had been found. I believe by that he meant 'found alive'. I suspect whatever happened, he thinks you are lucky."

She passed her wand over him again. "Well, we have to begin somewhere. Do you have any idea why your legs are covered in spots of magic that I cannot identify?"

"No?"

"Well, it's fairly evenly distributed. So, do they feel unusual?"

"My legs? No . . ."

"Fine. Do you see anything unusual?"

Eeles sat up and stared at his legs. "Could you point to what you're seeing?"

"There, there, there, there, there. I can go on."

"Huh. Leech scars."

"Scars from leech bites? I don't see any scars on your legs at all."

"Yes, I mean the scars that aren't there. They made a good story, too, but it wasn't any fun getting them. Huh."

"Alright, that makes no sense at all. Off with the socks . . . Good. Left pinky toe," she said, pointing.

"Stepped on by a hippogriff when I was eight."

"Nothing wrong with it now. Was it crooked?"

"Maybe a little? What the hell — did something leave me unconscious and heal random things?"

"I prefer not to jump to conclusions . . . Fascinating. I think I had better be taking notes. Just a moment."

She returned several seconds later with a clipboard.

Eeles laughed. "You look soo much more professional now."

"Don't I, though? Terrifies some children. I can't imagine why. They can't _all_ have had traumatic experiences with clipboards before coming to Hogwarts. Left hand . . . no, your hands are a mess. So are your arms . . . were there scars all over them?"

"Right," said Eeles, who had been scrutinizing them. "There are a really surprising number of thorn bushes in the world, you know, and I don't always wear armor."

"What about that big thing there?" she asked, indicating an unusually long line down his arm.

"Great aunt's kneazle."

"Looks about right," she said, scribbling notes on his chart.

"Are we going to go over every inch of my body?"

"Yes."

"Do you really think that's necessary?"

"Yes. Wait — that sounded like a sincere question. Huh. Sorry, I'm not used to patients who don't turn into complete morons as soon as they walk in my door." She shook her head. "How to put this. Right now I am trying to get as much information as I can about your condition without assuming I know how it all fits together, or which pieces of information will turn out to be important."

She waved her wand over his beard several times. "This process is made much easier in your case by the fact that I haven't the murkiest of notions what in Merlin's name could possibly have happened to you."

"At least you're honest."

"Why, thank you. Did you cut yourself shaving a lot before growing a beard?"

"Yes."

"Good. What? It resolves that area." She went up and down his torso, then made him roll over, continuing with a litany of minor scars.

"You know," said Eeles, conversationally, "except for that toe, I'm right pissed off at whoever or whatever did this to me. There were some good stories to go with those scars. I earned them!"

"I'm sure you did. I'm not disagreeing. We're going to check your vision and hearing later. Open your mouth. Oh." She paused. "I have no idea what's going on there, but you seem to have very healthy gums right now. Innterresting . . ."

"That's never good, is it."

"There's still a filling in one of your molars." She moved on.

"Huh," said Erasmus. "Hm. Right, magic on my ears and eyes might be spells I had active when I was patrolling."

"Alright, then, let's have you cancel them." She handed Eeles his wand from a bedside table. He tapped it to his forehead and each ears, silently canceling spells.

"Let's see . . .," she said. "Nope. That's not it. I'm going to move on to your internal organs."

About five minutes later, she spoke up again. "This is much harder. At least with scars you can tell me what it looked like before, and if we absolutely had to, we could go use Albus' penseive. But I don't suppose you were ever aware of anything being wrong with your gall bladder, were you?"

"I'm not really sure what that is. So, does this mean I'm the weirdest case you've ever seen?"

She snorted. "Hardly. I get asked that _all_ the time. First time a student gets in a potions accident and gets a few purple bumps, they think nothing like it has ever happened before. But if I tell them anything at all to disabuse them of that notion, that just means they'll go out of their way to come back to me the next time with feathers and antlers. Feathers! Do you know how easy it is to accidentally grow feathers?"

"Er, no?"

"Well, as it turns out, I see it all the time. Severus sets his students up to get in accidents that will annoy me, and he _looooves_ feathers."

"Oh, that's priceless!" Eeles laughed, then abruptly stopped. "Hey — you're trying to distract me from something, aren't you?"

"Actually, no. Potions accidents really do cause feathers on a regular basis around here, and I really am convinced Severus arranges it on purpose. Alright, I've gone over most of you. Off with the underpants."

"Er, isn't there something about being co-workers or something? I don't want to violate any policies no one told me about."

"Oh, do get over yourself. I've seen thousands of penises, and I'm sure there's nothing special about yours. Off. I'd do it myself but I'm avoiding touching you for now. Do I need to banish them?"

Eeles shrugged and did as requested, then waited several minutes while Poppy waved her wand at his crotch. Looking at her expression off intense concentration was too weird; he looked away. After several more minutes, he couldn't stand it anymore.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Magical residue throughout the area. It's a little different than elsewhere. You didn't have anything dramatically wrong down here before, did you?"

"Not that I know of. Uh, hang on, let me look . . . It looks the same as before, as far as I can tell."

"Huh." She took down several notes, then left for a moment, returning with a stack of books. Eeles, lying there naked, took it all in with a look of dismay.

"Um, before you start . . . whatever it is you are about to do with all that, is there any chance I could get breakfast?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the time I don't actually know whether Poppy is telling the truth.


	59. Slytherin's Monster, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things really need to be in short chapters by themselves.

She was supposed to be guarding things. She was sure of that. She had been in the rooms a few times, before her master sealed her in the chamber and allowed her to sleep, but she never understood anything he had been working on in there. She had her little den behind the sculpture, and spent most of her time in there curled up and asleep.

She would wake up every few months to hunt. Occasionally rats would find their way through the walls, or fish would come in through some connection to the lake. Oh, the entrances to those were magically blocked off to her, of course, to keep her in, but she wasn't complicated enough to resent it. That was just the way things were.

She had been rather small when her master left her — still small enough to ride around on his shoulders. When she was young — before the chamber was built — he had carried her around with him whenever he was working. At first in his pocket, or up his sleeve — that was before the magic in her eyes was fully developed, and she was allowed to peek out at the world if she liked. That was a nice time.

Later on he had to block off her eyes with a spell, but she still had plenty of other senses, and anyway it was nice to be big enough to ride around on his shoulders. She liked his children, too — they made a fuss over her and tried to feed her all sorts of delicacies. She didn't always like everything they brought — strawberries and cream, cakes, custard, oatmeal, boiled vegetables — it was all very puzzling. It was nice to try new things, though.

He hadn't started the chamber until after the school was built. She was a whole four feet long by then! He spent more and more time down there, bringing her with him whenever he went. Eventually he explained she would have to stay there some day as a guard, and that it was very important because no one else could do it properly. She was important!

She wasn't happy about having to stay there, but her master was very apologetic and promised to visit her regularly once that happened. And the day came when he set her up in her den and left her for the night. She trusted him to come back, and he did, the next day. She would greet him every time he came in, and ride on his shoulders while he worked, and once in a rare while he took her outdoors with him so she could see the sun. That was a nice time, too.

She watched him get older and more feeble, and only vaguely understood what was going on. He brought his projects in the Chamber to stopping points and sealed their entrances. Every so often he would come back to visit her, but the visits came more and more infrequently, and he looked less and less well each time. He explained that eventually he would come no more, and that she would be alone. That was scary, but she had been getting more and more used to the idea, and the spell on her den really did allow her to sleep soundly unless a noise awakened her.

There were no tearful goodbyes. He just stopped coming. She slept, mostly, sometimes eating whatever crept or swam in. Very slowly, she grew. Her master would be so impressed to see her now!

Then another speaker came, after a very, very long time. He never tried to find any of the other rooms in the Chamber, and seemed to think she was the most important thing in it. That was confusing, but very flattering. And he let her come out and roam around the castle! She was fascinated to find out what had changed, and what had stayed the same. But he had never taken care to cover her eyes like her master had, and eventually a girl saw her and died. He didn't seem upset about it at all, but he also never came back after returning her to her den.

The next speaker knew how to cast spells on her eyes, but only did it halfway. She was puzzled by this, but was forced to obey him as he led her around the school. Then something startled him, and he seemed to be arguing with himself. He led her into a storeroom and told her she would be safe there, and to wait for him to come back. It wasn't like she could get out. She sat there for about a month, waiting.

While she was there, on three different occasions house elves appeared before her. These promptly died from her gaze. Since she was unable to hunt, and a little hungry, and had no one to tell her not to, she ate them. They were okay, but tasted funny and didn't have much meat on them.

Then someone opened the door and called her by name. They weren't a speaker, though. She knew she wasn't supposed to listen to them. That meeting didn't go very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't managed to make a lot of time to write over the past year, but I can assure you the story is not dead. I think about it a lot and poke away at it (very slowly). Comments are good motivation!
> 
> As of 11/9/2013, I have about 9k words sitting in drafts. For a little perspective, that's about 4% of the length of what's already posted. In terms of word count alone, the story is already 75th out of 47470 Harry Potter stories on AO3. (I'm calculating that anyway, so I might as well share it.) In any event, AO3 is now caught up with Ficwad; FFNet will probably wait since it's even more annoying to format for.
> 
> I know a lot of what needs to happen, just not in what order I want to tell it in. This hampers my ability to post as I write. So, for instance, everything that happens to Charlie will probably be in a long flashback. 
> 
> Why Charlie? Remember that most fan-canon has Charlie's seventh year be 1990-1991, but that Philosopher's Stone has various characters making comments about Gryffindor not winning things since Charlie left; some fans think you need to have something happen to Charlie in his seventh year to explain that away (really it was just J K Rowling being loosey-goosey with dates and numbers, but it's a great story prompt). Obviously things are a little different the second time around in a time-travel story, but this arc is my stab at the idea.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you just read this whole thing from beginning to end in one go? I would like to hear from you! Your perspective is very different from the other readers who are getting one chapter a month or so. (Re-reading totally counts, but please tell me if that's the case.)
> 
> Even if you didn't read the whole thing in one go, or just didn't read the whole thing, I would really appreciate reviews. Comments let me know I have readers (and not just hits from search engines). I like having readers! Please recommend this story to your friends! Okay, that's shameless enough for now, right?
> 
> This story is not dead or on hiatus. I am not dead. I am just writing really slowly right now, and having trouble making time to write. Please comment and encourage me to get back to this. As of 11/9/2013 I have the next 9k words written, another 5k of material for much, much further in the future, and a really enormous amount of notes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Gred and Forge against the NEWT DADA class – sidestory to “Let's Try That Again, Shall We?”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/167797) by [mirabilos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilos/pseuds/mirabilos)




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